


run boy, run!

by velveitine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Human Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Beta Derek Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Human Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Pack Hierarchy, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Werewolf dominated society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveitine/pseuds/velveitine
Summary: In a world a where a neurovirus had wiped out almost 75% of humanity, scientists raced against their own extinction to discover a cure; instead, they unknowingly created a serum that turned humans into raging, feral beasts. Now, five years after the outbreak, weres have taken over any semblance of remaining society, creating entire civilizations of their own: walled communities that separate the rich and wealthy from the branded and condemned.So why does Stiles wake up in a place he doesn’t know in a body he doesn’t recognize as his own, knowing only his name and that something is very,verywrong?





	1. this world is not made for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I've been stewing for a while, based upon my love for post-apocalyptic settings. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and those still yet to come!
> 
> * tags and warnings will be updated accordingly

Stiles rolls to the side, moving to itch his face in half-consciousness, a tiny bothersome hair tickling the soft skin of his cheek. Even in a state of post-sleep delirium, he can feel the discomfort of tiny grains of dirt beneath him, rubbing against his exposed skin, inching up his shirt, and around to some other places he’d rather not think about.

He groans, turning his face away from the sunlight he can tell is there through his closed eyelids, and mumbles a distracted 'five more minutes'. He expects someone to strip away the covers and pull him off the mattress with hands wrapped around his calves, laughing and joking for him to get his lazy butt out of bed. But there’s no weight over his body. No hands around his legs. Just a phantom voice of a stranger ringing in his ears.

Stiles opens his eyes and props himself up on his elbows.

There’s sunlight streaming in through a window jagged with the remnants of broken glass panes. The floor, where Stiles had expected at least carpet, is made of dusty plywood covered in leaves and mouse droppings. The mattress below him looks old and worn, stained yellow by time and covered in small pieces of drywall and dirt. The only thing out of place in the room is Stiles himself.

He looks down, the t-shirt, hoodie, and cotton shorts covering his body all a dull shade of light grey, but in oddly good condition considering the state of the room he’s in.

He scoots on his butt to the edge of the filthy mattress, stepping down to the floor on rubbery legs, and he’s surprised he even remembers how to walk. Glass crunches beneath the thick soles of the grey slip-ons he’s sporting. The voice in his head quips sarcastically, _hot_.

Stiles stomach growls and he feels at the concave space under his ribs, unable to remember the last time he ate or drank anything.

Now that he thinks about it, Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep either.

If he’s being completely honest with himself, he hardly remembers anything. All he really knows is that his name is definitely Stiles, and that something is very, _very_ wrong.

On legs barely able to hold his weight, Stiles stumbles around the mattress and through an open doorframe, out into a hallway in the same condition— walls bare and floors covered in dirt and leaves. He checks all the rooms on the floor, finding nothing useful.

Stiles feels like he should be lonely or confused, or maybe fearful of his lost time. But he doesn’t. He just feels empty.

He wanders down a stairway that opens up to what probably used to be a living room. All that remains is a sun-bleached couch and broken bookshelves. He ambles around what he can safely assume used to be someone’s home, and peeks his head into a small room under the stairs. There’s a window and a toilet on the opposite wall, and a sink to his right, a mirror hanging above. Stiles closes the door behind him, making sure the lock clicks quietly into place. He walks to the opposite wall and steps up on the lid of the toilet, cranking open the window and letting a cool breeze replace the stale air inside, some of the shattered glass falling to the ground with the movement. He may not remember anything, but he’s not stupid enough to get caught if this extremely abandoned, possibly volatile house proves to be a shitty place to hide.

Stiles steps carefully off the toilet towards the sink and tries the handles, disappointed but not really surprised when the divine flow of water doesn’t come. His throat is hoarse and he whines, moving back towards the toilet. He opens the lid, but the porcelain is dry and cracked. Just as dehydrated as he is.

Stiles peers towards the mirror that’s murky from a build-up of dust and grime. He wipes at the surface with his hand, shocked when he doesn’t recognize the person that stares back at him. The man’s eyes—no, his eyes, he has to remind himself. That’s how mirrors work. His eyes are a whisky brown, his skin lightly toned and cheeks splattered with tiny moles. His brunette hair is long, reaching down to his chin. It’s an honest-to-God rat’s nest and he cringes at the thought of untangling it, not even willing to try.

In the midst of investigating himself, Stiles feels a small prick on his right arm, almost like there’s a needle poking at the skin. He pulls back his sleeve, revealing five thin red bands that circle his forearm. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, wetting them and trying to rub the marks away, but they remain stuck to his skin.

He doesn’t know why, but he wants to hide them, cover them with something. He goes rifling through the drawers until he finds a tube of skin colored paste and twists open the cap, letting it fall to the floor. He slathers the goop on and dabs it with his fingers, making sure it’s thick enough to hide the permanent marks for a while.

Stiles is prodding curiously at his own teeth when he hears a small sound, hardly loud enough for him to catch without straining. A small creaking as though a door is being opened. He freezes, lips still awkwardly stretching around his fingers. _Goddamnit_. The creaking wavers and the sound of wood hitting a doorstop has Stiles scrambling as quietly as he can onto the toilet’s tank. He shoves the window the rest of the way open, trying to avoid the sharp edges of glass that sag down from the frame as he pulls his torso through the small opening that’s barely big enough to fit his shoulders.

A shard of glass catches the exposed skin on his back between where his shirt rides up and his waistband sags. He hisses as he can feel the blood flowing lazily down his back and around to his stomach, dripping to the ground below. As Stiles wiggles the rest of the way out and drops to the ground, just a little bit woozy from the sight of his own blood, he can hear the splintering of wood and an animalistic growling through the window. Clawed fingers grab hold of the window frame and another hand thrusts through, connected to a bulging forearm that’s covered in so many old gashes that Stiles thinks the skin covering it is mostly scar tissue. A head follows the arm, covered with dirty blonde matted hair and skin covered in dirt and dried crimson.

The thing is laughing and scrambling at the frame of the window, manic and wild, mouth open wide enough for Stiles to see the glint of drool hanging from sharp, protruding fangs. What leaves Stiles staring longer than he knows he should are two glowing cobalt irises staring right back at him. After snapping himself out of the trance he’s fallen into, Stiles turns and runs. He has no idea where the hell he’s going, but he’s thinking anywhere away from that monster would be fan-fucking-tastic.

Stiles vaults a rotten wooden fence and runs through a side-yard, crossing hot asphalt and clambering over a chainlink fence. He runs through dead grass and his soles pound against cracked pavement, a creaking, rusted playground haunting his peripheral.

Stiles runs and runs, skidding around corners and almost falling on his face after tripping over his own feet a few times, until his legs go numb and his lungs are screaming for air. He slows to a halt next to the skeleton of a car, wheezing as he circles it, looking inside at the burned upholstery and peering at the bare wheels. He looks up and around at the silent neighborhood; the empty lots in front of the houses are occupied by haphazard piles of scrap metal and trash, and most of the plants in the small vicinity of Stiles’ vision are either dying or already dead.

The barking of a dog slices the silence like a blade, making Stiles jump in surprise. More dogs join in and adrenaline starts pumping through Stiles’ veins, his dehydrated little heart fluttering as fast as it can. He rounds another neighborhood corner and a glint of sunlight bounces off a window, catching Stiles’ eye. The window, to Stiles’ surprise, is whole. The house it’s attached to is painted moss green with runes and a variety of herbs hang from the trim, bunched together and strung up to dry in the scorching summer sun.

Several dogs stand in the side-yard below the window, all barking with teeth bared viciously and yanking against thick chains linked to studded leather collars. Stiles can literally see strings of saliva flying from their mouths from a house away. The house’s front door opens and three men walk out, each holding up a T91 trained on Stiles, ready to fire.

Stiles puts his hands up, but the guns stay raised. He takes a tentative step forward.

One of the men yells, “Don’t move or we’ll shoot.” Stiles freezes, holding his breath.

Another man, Stiles guesses as the oldest by his greying hair, turns and calls towards the house, “Amelia, get out here!” The two other men keep their eyes on Stiles, staring through the scopes of their rifles.

The front door swings open again and a thin wisp of a woman steps out onto the porch. The grey haired man nods towards Stiles, “Recognize him?”

The woman puts her hands on her hips and squints towards Stiles, “No, but he doesn’t look strong enough to be a beast or an omega. Might be a lost druid, though.”

The guns are lowered, but Stiles can tell from their body language that the three men are still on edge.

The woman calls out to Stiles, “You a druid, boy? Pull down your sleeves and show us your arms.”

Stiles complies and pulls down both sleeves of his hoodie, his arms rising back into the air high enough for all four to see.

The woman sighs and shakes her head. She talks to the three men loud enough that Stiles can hear, “If he’s a druid, he’s not marked. Might be some other creature but without inspecting him I wouldn’t know, and no way in hell am I getting close enough to tell.”

One of the men yells to Stiles, motioning with his gun, “Go on past, boy. We’ve got nothing for you here.”

Stiles nods and begins to jog past the house, all three men watching him pass, the woman already back inside the house. Once he’s past the front door, Stiles can see a small child sitting on the roof. He can’t be older than eight or nine, but he’s following Stiles in the scope of an SR25 perched on his knee, held in a way that makes Stiles think maybe he was born with the rifle clutched tightly in his hands. Stiles turns and stares straight ahead, jogging away from the house as fast as his wobbly legs can take him. His heart is beating heavy in his chest and he feels like he just narrowly escaped being the kid’s next target practice.

Stiles runs and dodges mangled trash, jumping over a broken wooden table with one leg, his knees buckling underneath him. He stops and squats down close to the ground, panting and running his fingers over his dry, peeling lips. If the house he woke up in didn’t have water, then the others probably didn’t either. He should’ve asked the woman if she had some water to spare; she had seemed like the type to be kind.

Stiles’ fantasy of water is interrupted when the dogs begin to bark again, echoing through the neighborhood roads. Their barks seeming less angry and more… frightened. The sound of gunshots follow, raised voices filling the air. The dogs’ barking turn frantic and someone screams— the high pitched scream of a girl or someone young— followed by the crack of another gunshot. Then there’s nothing.

Nothing but the ringing in Stiles’ ears.

Before Stiles has time to even catch his breath, something grabs hold of his arm and he’s being yanked backward, tripping over scattered trash and the curb and his own feet. He croaks awkwardly in response, throat too dry to muster anything louder, or more expressive.

Claws dig into Stiles’ bicep, almost hard enough to draw blood, “Shut up!”, the person dragging Stiles along snaps, continuing to pull him towards the middle of the street. He looks over his shoulder, down to the head of a child, almost a foot shorter than him. He’s being lugged around by a goddamn _child_?

The child lets go of his arm, leaving five crescent indents in the soft flesh. With a swift motion, the child shoves a pile of trash away from the ground, revealing an almost indistinguishable manhole cover. The child pulls the disk upward and pushes it aside, turning around and starting down the service ladder inside the vertical tunnel.

The child holds out a grimy, clawed hand, “C’mon,” when Stiles doesn’t move, the child huffs in impatience, wiggling its fingers, “You’ve managed to attract the hounds so you either come with me and maybe live or stay up here and definitely be killed brutally.” The child begins descending down the ladder, “Your choice, take it or leave it. I’d take it if I were you, and I'm not a dumbass”

The child begins to pull the cover back into place and Stiles chews on his fingernails.

“Wait,” the child stops and Stiles turns to put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, “I’ll close it.”

Stiles takes a deep breath descends into darkness.


	2. they're trying to catch you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s 3am but i tried to update asap, so i hope y’all enjoy!

Stiles drops from the bottom rung of the ladder and soars through darkness, but only for a fraction of a second. His shoes hit the ground and he sinks down, the floor taking most of the impact of the short fall, but his knees buckle and his legs still feel like jelly. The ground is squishy and Stiles feels like he’s standing on a sandy beach near the ocean, waiting for the incoming wave to wash over his feet, burying them deep in the sand until he has to wiggle them loose. Stiles lifts his foot and the ground squelches as it lets go of his shoe.

When the smell of the sewer finally hits Stiles’ nose, it about throws him on his ass. Even though it’s just the smell of raw sewage, which is to be expected in a _sewer_ , it’s a stark contrast to the fresh air he just hopped into a tunnel and away from.

He waves his hand around in front of his face, but even inches away, he can’t see a thing. He sticks his hands to the side, met with the inside walls of the pipe, damp with moss and dripping onto his knuckles. If he wasn’t so distracted with feeling utterly lost and slightly disgusted, Stiles probably would’ve thrown up right there.

He thinks the child has left, until rough, cold metal is at his throat and a clawed hand digs into his shoulder. The child rests dry lips against the shell of his ear and Stiles is beginning to think he found a worse smell than the sewers.

“Keep quiet or I’ll slit your throat and leave you to die,” the child whispers into his ear, the claws moving from his shoulder to clamp over his mouth, nails burrowing into his cheek.

Above, the hollow sound of footsteps echoes down into the tunnels and the child stays frozen. Stiles is tense but complies to the child’s commands and stays silent; he definitely hasn’t forgotten the knife warming against his neck.

Even after the footsteps have passed, the child stays plastered against Stiles’ back, knife held tightly against his throat and his cheek going numb.

“You better be glad that they didn’t hear your heartbeat, dumbass,” the child releases Stiles, leaving him to flail awkwardly into the pitch-dark until a hand hooks onto his bicep and pulls him upright.

The child begins to walk, pulling Stiles along like a dog on a leash. Stiles puts out his hands, one hand trailing against the wall while the other sticks out in front of him, but the child obviously knows where to go. They walk at a steady pace and Stiles can hear the child counting their paces under their breath.

One, two, three… until it reaches seventeen and they stop, turning 90 degrees to the right and continue walking.

Ten and they turn left.

Twenty and they turn right.

Stiles knew that sewers were complicated, but he’s not so sure that this isn’t a goddamn labyrinth.

They’ve been walking for what seems like twenty minutes and Stiles smacks his lips, mouth dry and lips peeling, “I’m thirsty.”

The child snorts, “So? Everyone’s thirsty down here, what makes you so special?”

“Nothing I guess, just trying to make conversation,” Stiles shifts against the child’s hand, the claws a constant reminder that he’s basically a prisoner to a child, of all things.

“Even considering how lonely it’s been down here without any pack, I think I’d rather chew off my own foot than have a conversation with you,” the child turns left, yanking Stiles along.

Stiles stays quiet for a while, letting the child tug him around countless corners, but a thought comes to mind, “Even if everyone’s thirsty, you’re still alive, which means you have some sort of access to water.”

The child comes to a halt and turns, Stiles slamming against them in the process, “Look here, _idiot_ ,” the child hisses, ”I just saved your life considering you seem to have the brain function of a five-year-old and the directional intuition of a blind man. If I’m being honest with myself I think you are the one that should be finding water for me. You owe me and if you don’t pay me back I’ll leave you here to die and rot like everything else. Maybe if you’re lucky one of the others will find you and you’ll be put to good use as their dinner.”

Stiles isn’t sure if that last bit is a snarky comment or a threat, “How am I supposed to pay you back? I don’t have any money,” Stiles doesn’t know where to look, so he just stares at where he thinks his shoes would be.

“Money? I can’t eat money, dumbass,” the child starts walking again, pushing Stiles forward, “I can’t trade it either. Do you have any food?”

Stiles shakes his head, then remembers that the child can probably see just as well as he can, “I don’t have anything except my clothes”.

The child huffs in annoyance for the umpteenth time, “I guess you’ll just have to pay me back with a favor, which will probably be worse for you, but that’s not my problem.”

Stiles begins to open his mouth when the child almost growls, “If you ask me for water again I’m going to punch you in the face.”

The child turns left and Stiles can feel the difference in the air. It’s cooler, like it’s being ventilated from somewhere else and being brought into the tunnels. The hand on his bicep releases and Stiles can hear the child scuffling around, searching for something. A tiny scratching sound interrupts the silence and a flame sparks to life inches from Stiles’ face.

From what Stiles can see in the small amount of light being emitted by the match’s flame, the room that the child seems to have claimed as its own is made from one concrete wall, curving around to form a tall cylinder. The child smiles behind the match with a set of yellowed, extremely sharp teeth and turns towards one side of the continuous wall, squatting down to the ground and lighting the short wicks of three candles. Stiles looks upward to see a variation of pipes sticking out from the wall, all slowly dripping water into dented pots and cracked bowls that sit on the floor.

The child stands back up, holding the smallest candle up to Stiles’ arm and pushing away his right sleeve with the other hand. He tries to yank his arm away but the child maintains a firm grip, eyes large and hungry as they investigate his skin, prodding and poking at where the lines have been hidden. “Goddamnit. So much for paying me back, you’re proving to be extremely useless,” the child grumbles and drops Stiles’ arm, leaving small crescent markings in its wake.

The child walks over to a considerable nest of worn blankets covered in dirt, plopping down and sighing, “home sweet home”.

Stiles stays standing near the entryway to the tunnel, unsure if he should sit down on the ground or just stay where he is. The child answers the question for him and removes one of the blankets from the nest, throwing it on the ground between his feet.

“Rest. Tomorrow we’re gonna find some way for you to repay me,” the child collapses back into the nest of blankets and curls up facing Stiles. It smiles with those nasty, sharp teeth and blows out all three candles with a quick puff.

Stiles bends down to spread the blanket across the floor in an attempt to make an extremely shabby bed. He sits on the blanket and realizes he’s made a mistake.

The blanket smells like mold and urine and Stiles holds back bile fighting its way up his throat. He stands up and kicks the blanket away.

He’d rather sleep on the hard concrete floor and wake up with a stiff neck than have to smell that all night. He lies on his side facing the wall and uses his arm as a pillow; not exactly the peak of luxury but it’s better than being killed above ground like the family or the dogs. His throat is dry and his body is screaming at him to _please find some water, dude_ , so he waits.

It takes a while, but eventually the child’s breathing evens out, steady inhales followed by steady exhales.

With cold bones and aching muscles, Stiles rolls onto his hands and knees, feeling over the ground until his fingers brush over one of the many pots, cold to the touch. Stiles sticks his head in the pot, rewarded by cool sensation of water on his tongue and the steady drip-drip-drip of water droplets against his scalp and down his neck. He drinks until his stomach is begging him to stop, and then some. Satisfied, he rolls back onto the ground away from the pot and pulls the zipper of his hoodie upward, the cold from the concrete finally starting to set into his body.

Stiles doesn’t know how long he has been awake— it couldn’t have been for more than a few hours— but his eyes are already threatening to slip shut from pure exhaustion and his body feels like a bag of wet cement. He doesn’t fight against his eyelids as they slide closed and he lets himself relax for the first time since he woke up in that abandoned house.

He lets the steady liquid metronome of dripping water lull him to sleep, stomach full and mind completely empty.

 

⁂

 

Stiles wakes to bony, grimy fingers running through his hair. He sits up abruptly, trying to get away from the creeping appendages, his head banging against the concrete wall. Groaning and rubbing the back of his head, Stiles looks at the child with what he hopes is a threatening glare, but he knows he probably looks pathetic to the child.

“Why the hell were you touching my hair?” Stiles rubs at the small bump already forming on the back of his head.

The child sits back and chews on its thumbnail, looking Stiles up and down, “How are you so clean?”

“What?” Stiles is still dazed from hitting the wall, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t wondering himself.

“I mean, I get that you haven’t been living in the pipeline but you should at least have dirt on your skin or a scratch somewhere, but you just… don’t? You smell like plants and the scent of antiseptic is so strong I can hardly smell anything else on you,” the child rubs at its jaw, “Are you from inside the wall?”

“What wall?”

The child huffs and stands up, “Nevermind, you obviously have no idea,” the child moves toward the nest of blankets and pulls out a small knife from within the dirty folds. It moves back towards him, knife in hand and a glint in its eye.

Stiles pushes himself flat against the wall in an attempt to stay away from the serrated blade, “Wh— what are you doing with that?”

“I’m not gonna kill you, dumbass, you’re worth more to me alive than dead. The knife’s for your hair,” the child runs a finger across the sharp edge of the blade, “we need to cut it; it’s too long for living outside the wall. If you’re going to pay me back with a favor then you’re gonna want it short.”

Stiles is still unsure, having met the seemingly homicidal child only yesterday, “Why would I want it short?” Stiles sticks out his chin like a stubborn child and runs his fingers through his hair, “Maybe I like it long.”

“You’re not gonna like it long if someone gets ahold of it and rips it out of your scalp at the root,” the child quirks an eyebrow.

Stiles lets the child’s words sink in, then moves away from the wall, “Fine, just make it quick.”

Stiles will openly admit to anybody who asks that getting his hair cut by a child with a homemade choppy-ass knife is not the smartest decision he could’ve made, but he can’t back down now.

He hugs his knees as his hair is slowly sheared off and he babbles, distracting himself from the pain of a knife chopping through his hair and pulling at his scalp, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a girl, but when it comes to going above the surface, it helps to look like a boy,” the knife continues to cut the hair behind his ear, millimeters away from nicking his skin, “Does it matter?”

“Not really, I guess,” the girl moves to his front, sawing off the long pieces of hair that remain in front of his face, “You said it was lonely down here, but you’re just a kid. Do you have a family.”

The girl pauses, her face turning sour, “Well for one, I’m fifteen, so thanks but I’m not a little kid and I’m capable of caring for myself. Also, everyone outside the wall apart from the militia is an omega.”

“I— I don’t really know what that means,” a small piece of hair falls onto Stiles’ nose and he sneezes.

“Damn, have you been living under a rock for the past five years?” the girl huffs as she encounters an exceptionally tough patch of hair, tugging at Stiles’ scalp with rough fingers, “Basically, everyone who lives inside the wall is an entitled prick, whether they’re an Alpha or a beta doesn’t matter. Everyone outside the wall is an omega, and if you weren’t an idiot, you’d know that omegas don’t usually have packs. I mean, sometimes we form alliances between different factions for protection, but that’s hardly any kind of substitute for a family.”

“Do you at least have a name?”

The girl snorts, “Of course I have a name, I’m not a stray dog,” she squats down in front of Stiles, reaching out a spindly hand, “I’m Rowan, what about you?”

Stiles hesitantly shakes Rowan’s hand, “Stiles— I think.”

Rowan stands up and moves behind Stiles, adding some finishing touches to the small hairs sticking out at the back. She slaps the back of his head, almost endearingly, “Well Stiles, you’re finished. Ain’t my best, but it’s honest work and better than the ratty mop you were sporting.”

Stiles lets his hand trail up above his neck to feel at his hair. It’s cut close to his scalp at the bottom and gets longer toward the top, unruly and sticking up in every which way. Rowan is telling the truth when she says it’s better than before.

Stiles can hear Rowan shuffling around near the entrance to the tunnels, but when he turns, the darkness has swallowed her and all he can hear is incoherent mumbling.

“What are you doing?” Stiles keeps moving his hand through the top of his hair, touching the roughly cut ends that stick out in odd places.

“We need to get you really, really dirty for my plan to actually work. You stick out too much in those clothes and your skin is too clean,” Rowan comes back into the light with hands covered in mud and sewage.

Stiles almost whines, “No no no. Hell no, I’m not smelling like shit just to blend in,” he narrowly dodges a small hand covered in grime and dripping with green goop.

“If you want to stay alive then you’re gonna have to blend in and look like everyone else outside the wall. If the wrong people realize you’re from the inside, they could sell you to the black market. I’ve even heard stories about weres keeping those they find from inside the wall as slaves, and I don’t think they discriminate between species.”

“Weres? Like _werewolves_?” Stiles’ voice reaches a pitch he wasn’t aware he was capable of creating.

Rowan, taking advantage of Stiles’ confusion, wipes a hand covered in mud and raw sewage against his hoodie, defiling the soft grey material, “Of course werewolves. What else would I be talking about?”

Stiles gives in to the sludge, thinking Rowan is playing some sort of prank on him. He plays along, “I thought you were talking about people, like, actual humans.”

Rowan hesitates against Stiles’ neck, but smears the sewage against his skin, “Are you just bullshitting me or do you really not know what happened?”

“I honestly don’t remember anything,” Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs and he’s starting to think this isn’t just a joke.

Rowan sits back and takes a deep breath, like she’s trying to find the right place to start, “If you’re just joking with me and I say all this for nothing I’m gonna fight you. And I know for damn sure that I’ll win against your skinny ass.”

Stiles puts his hands up, “I swear I’m not joking.”

Rowan sighs, “About six years ago, humans hardly knew weres existed. We were just living in the shadows of humanity, doing our best to stay alive and out of the way. I don’t exactly remember where it came from, somewhere in India I think, but some sort of complicated airborne virus that only affected humans started spreading. The word eventually got out that the first few infected had all died with the same progressing symptoms.”

Stiles feels like he’s stuck in thick jelly, his brain unwilling to process most of what Rowan is saying, “What were the symptoms?”

“At first, they lost their motor functions, then their ability to speak, then most of them would go blind and eventually the cells of their brainstems would just… die. I think the worse case of it lasted around 6 months. But, that’s not even the most interesting part of the story!” Rowan motions with her hands while she paces back and forth across the concrete, “There were some bonkers med-prep students up in Oregon that claimed they had created an antidote, of course everyone thought they were crazy, but they started curing the infected. There were people who had gone blind that had taken injections and woke up days later with 20/20 vision.”

Stiles feels like he’s going to pass out.

_Why doesn’t he remember any of this?_

Rowan doesn’t notice the new paleness to Stiles’ face, “It wasn’t until after billions had died and tens had been cured for people to finally see that it was really working. All the recipients of the serum were at least faring better than the dead, so people started lining up outside their doors. The people who hadn’t been sick and could afford the serum got injections as a precaution, but it wasn’t until the seventeenth case of insanity that everyone started to realize the serum had pretty gnarly side effects.”

Without even taking a breath, Rowan continues, “All the humans who had gotten the injection started acting weird. Like, really weird. Running around naked at night on all fours and growling at raccoons, stuff like that. The cases started piling up and the people started getting more aggressive, eating their family pets and tearing their neighbors apart limb from limb. Since the virus doesn’t affect weres, most Alphas took the opportunity and dominated over the countries that humans left in ruins. The reason I was looking at your arm yesterday was to see if you were marked, but you aren’t; just my luck.”

Stiles is dumbfounded, too much information being processed at once, “What do you mean marked?”

“Everyone who got the cure was tattooed, one red band for each injection. The more bands, the higher the dosage, and the more lethal the side effects. I’ve heard that some Level Five beasts had the strength to challenge Alphas, but I’m sure that’s just some hoax.”

There’s a sour feeling in Stiles’ stomach, “Are there beasts here? Like, above ground?” He looks down at his right sleeve, thinking about the five red bands hiding beneath. They hadn’t made sense when he first saw them, but now he’s glad he covered them with layers of the skin colored paste.

Rowan nods, “Of course there are, they’re everywhere. I’ve heard of some omega gangs using them like guard dogs around here, since they’re usually even more vicious than weres. They don’t have any humanity, which means they have nothing left to lose.”

Stiles can feel the sour feeling in his throat clawing upward, a coppery taste that fills his mouth with saliva. He hardly has time to turn toward the wall before his stomach is emptying its limited contents. His stomach feels like it’s being wrung out like a wet towel, and he gags until tears are spilling over his cheeks and he’s begging his body to stop because _he can’t breathe_.

Stiles’ vision is blurring, and he feels like the room is swirling around him. He tries to put his hand against the wall to steady himself, but he’s falling too quick. His head hits the ground with a low crack and all he can hear before his mind gives way to sweet nothingness is the panicked echo of his name bouncing off concrete walls.


	3. running is a victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been busy with school and bouncing back and forth from working on this chapter to another that i plan on using in the future, so hopefully this one isn't total ass

Even though Stiles can feel the soft shaking of his shoulder, what really brings him back to the land of the living is the smell; morning breath can’t compete with the stench that’s making its way into his nose and he almost gags. Hot puffs of air are fanning across his face and when he lets his eyes draw open, he’s met with a smile full of yellowed teeth.

“Good, you’re awake,” Rowan pulls Stiles up to a sitting position by the front of his t-shirt, “If you thought you could get out of repaying me by playing dead, you’re more of a fool than I thought.”

Stiles shakes his head, “I wasn’t trying to get out of paying you back, I just got… overwhelmed,” he rubs at his temples, trying to massage a headache away.

“Well you’re gonna have to get over yourself because once the sun sets in a few hours, you’re paying me back,” Rowan turns toward the nest of blankets and plops down, more interested in digging dirt from her nails with the tip of her small knife than focusing on Stiles.

When he’s sure Rowan isn’t looking, Stiles turns away and carefully pulls back the sleeve of his hoodie, the thin material sticking to his arm, damp with sweat. The paste that Stiles had put over the tattoos snaking their way around his arm is wearing away, some of it stuck to the inside of his sleeve. His palms turn icy-damp and he wipes them on his shorts, pulling his sleeve down and turning back toward Rowan.

“I need some privacy,” Stiles is shaking, a cold sweat making its way down his neck.

Rowan barely pays him any regard and points near the entrance of the tunnels, just outside the reach of the candlelight, “There’s a little alcove just outside the entrance to the tunnels.” Before she goes back to picking at her nails, she looks up, “But Stiles. The others. Don’t go too far.”

Stiles nods and stumbles through the darkness, fingers running across the rough concrete and shoes squelching through the disgusting goop that he’s sure is pure sewage. He eventually finds the small recess, just big enough to fit his body and then some. He squats down and unzips his hoodie, exposing the front of his t-shirt. Stiles pulls at a tear on the hem, carefully ripping himself a small strip of cloth, just long enough to wrap around his forearm once. He pulls up his right sleeve and ties the strip around his arm, binding it with a simple knot. He pulls up his other sleeve and slathers the thick sludge over both of his arms.

The sewage smells unholy, but his tattoos are well hidden, and that’s all that matters.

Once he’s done rolling his sleeves down over his arms and his hands feel gritty, he relieves himself. _Might as well do it now_. When he’s doing up the drawstring on his shorts, a squelch echoes behind him, followed by a whispered curse.

Stiles twists and faces the pitch black tunnel. Someone could’ve been standing six inches away, engulfed by the darkness, and Stiles wouldn’t have been able to see them. He flattens himself against the wall and hurries back toward the candlelight. Rowans lounges on her greasy nest of blankets, hands resting behind her head, watching water drip from the pipes coming from the walls.

Stiles whisper-hisses, “ _Rowan_.”

Her focus drifts from the pipes, eyes heavy and bored, “Are you done?”

“I think there’s someone in the tunnels.” Stiles’ eyes dart over his shoulder, then back to Rowan.

Her eyes snap wide open and she jumps to her feet. Even in the dim light, Stiles can see a set of small-but-sharp fangs pushing through Rowan’s gums. Her nails are replaced by thick claws and her irises glow a bright cobalt-blue; the same blue of the eyes of the beast that Stiles left hanging from the window. He scrambles away from Rowan as she lets out a low, protective growl.

“We know you’re there. If I see you, I’ll kill you,” the tunnel remains eerily quiet as Rowan inches toward the entrance, “I can’t see anybody, so whoever was out there probably made a run for it once they heard you.” Long claws retract back to nails and when Rowan turns toward Stiles, her fangs slowly return to blunt almost-human teeth and her eyes to a steel grey. “Regardless, we should probably get going now in case someone else decides they want to get in the way of me getting my favor.”

Stiles watches Rowan dig around in her blanket nest for the small knife. When she finds it, she slides it into her waistband and turns with a sinister grin etched across her face, “Ready to go?”

Stiles shrugs, “It’s not like I own anything.”

Rowan snorts, but the humor leaves her face in an instant, “Now, someone is stalking my tunnel, and since I’m most definitely not the strongest one living down here, we need to leave. Hang on to my shirt and do not let go under any circumstance. Even if we have to run. Scratch that, _especially_ if we have to run.”

Stiles feels like a child, but he nods and takes a fist of Rowan’s t-shirt, the greasy material slippery in his sweating fist. Rowan blows out the burning candles and begins to walk through the pitch-black tunnels.

Rowan is counting her paces again. Thirteen and they turn left. Twenty-two and they turn right. Everything is the same as when they were entering the tunnels, the only exception is that Stiles doesn’t have a knife at his throat this time around. It’s almost comforting.

“How do you know the sewers so well?” Stiles whispers into the darkness, trying to get his mind off the thing that was watching them, stalking them.

“I’ve been living down here since the stronger omegas started hunting the weak. Haven’t you ever been down here?”

“No,” Stiles whispers without thinking. He honestly doesn’t remember being anywhere, but he’s sure that even with a huge chunk of his memory gone completely AWOL, he’s never been anywhere near these sewers.

“Damn, you’re lucky. It used to be a lot worse— about five months ago, there was a pipe full of slime that went up to my knees. I had to hide in it, buried all the way up over my head.”

Stiles wonders if she’s wearing the same clothes she wore in the sewage; it would explain her overwhelmingly horrible smell.

Rowan nudges his shoulder, “Don’t you wanna know why I was swimming through shit?”

“Why?” Stiles doesn’t really want to know, but it’s a good distraction. He keeps freaking himself out, thinking, _what if it’s lurking right behind them, waiting for the perfect time to strike?_

“The militia hunts down weaker omegas when they get bored of guarding the wall, and I just so happened to be their target. I almost had to drown myself so they couldn’t hear my heartbeat and the slime was strong enough that they couldn’t smell me. They all got sick, though. They’re never down here so their noses aren’t used to the smell. They were throwing up perfectly good rations and then they just left. It was so—”

Rowan stops, Stiles slamming straight into her back. She sniffs, “Did you hear that?”

Stiles is about to ask Rowan to be more specific when her shirt tears from his sweating fingers and he’s being thrown onto his back with a disgusting squelch. The air in his lungs is knocked out of him on impact with the ground, and before he even has the chance to gasp, a pair of enormous hands clamps around his neck. He tries to scream, but the hands crush his windpipe and jagged fingernails dig into his skin, his scream coming out as a pathetic gurgle.

Stiles claws at the hands on his neck and tries to wiggle from the tight grasp, wheezing and trying desperately to force air back down into his lungs. He balls his hand into a tight fist and swings at the darkness in front of him, knuckles meeting rough, hairy flesh. A low grunt echoes through the tunnel and the fingers on his neck loosen a fraction.

The fear seeps from Stiles’ blood and is replaced with raw fury. He’s angry that he doesn’t remember where he came from, angry that he has to hide out in a sewer to stay alive, angry at whatever the fingers around his neck are attached to.

He pulls his hand back and tightens it into a fist again, his body vibrating with adrenaline and his fist trembling with rage; if he could see his hands he knows his knuckles would be white. He pulls his arm as far back as he can and swings, all his weight and energy channeled into making contact. He’s met with a terrifyingly feral pleasure as his knuckles connect with flesh and bone, a dense crack following. The fingers around his neck loosen and fall away, followed by the squelching sound of something heavy falling beside him.

Stiles gasps and rolls to his side, choking on the phantom feeling of fingers crushing his trachea and coughing up saliva, his cheek pressed against the slick floor of the pipe.

The sounds of struggle fills the tunnel— a grunt that sounds too deep to have come from Rowan and a high yelp that makes Stiles shiver

Stiles pushes off the ground and staggers toward the noise. His feet bump something on the ground and he squats down, waving his hands through the darkness. He can feel the steady inhale and exhale of something; his fingers running over broad, bare shoulders and a face covered in coarse, greasy hair. Stiles yanks his hand away and focuses on the continued sounds of struggle.

He consciously steps over the wide body beneath him and reaches out, touching the mossy wall and following it closer to the whimpering and growling coming from further down the pitch-black tunnel.

As he nears the origin of the grunting, a set of fingers slaps against his arm and small claws try to dig into his skin. They don’t find purchase and are gone as fast as they came.

“Rowan?”

“Help me!” Rowan gasps.

Stiles freezes. _Help? How is he supposed to help when he can’t see anything? He could try kicking at the darkness but he would run the risk of hitting Rowan._

“Don’t just stand there, jump on him!” Rowan’s voice is muffled.

Stiles hesitates, then half-heartedly throws himself toward the sound of the skirmish, landing on an awkward pile of limbs. He feels around and can immediately tell which is which. The second attacker is gruesomely muscular and hairy like the first. Rowan, on the other hand, is a pile of bones. He grabs a fistful of hair in one hand and the attacker’s chin in the other. He yanks one hand toward himself and hears a snap, the head between his hands falling as the body beneath it goes limp and crumples to the ground.

Stiles untangles his fingers from the grimy head of hair and wipes them on his pants. The curves of his fingers and the deepest part of his palms are sticky and he really doesn’t want to know why.

A bony hand grabs his and tugs, “Stiles, run!”

Stiles stumbles away from the darkness housing their attackers and tries his best to keep up with Rowan, but he keeps tripping and his lungs begin to burn despite the humidity of the tunnels. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins is long gone and all he feels is a deep ache in his muscles and a rising panic teeming at the edges of his mind.

“Rowan— please stop, I need—“ his breath comes in short puffs and he wheezes, “I can’t breathe—” Stiles trips on a pipe sticking up from the ground and crashes to the floor, his palms and the exposed skin of his knees catching on the one place on the floor that doesn’t happen to be thickly covered by soft moss. He can feel his kneecaps grind across the metal and the skin above them breaking open. Uncontrollable heavy teardrops leave salty trails down his cheeks; whether they’re from the pain or the overwhelming panic, he can’t tell.

Rowan pulls him back to his feet, “I know it hurts but we need to get to the surface before more find us. Walk on the sides of your feet so they don’t squelch as much and don’t let go of my hand.”

Stiles sniffles, and even though he knows she can’t see him, he nods. They run for what feels like hours, creeping carefully around corners and stopping abruptly so Rowan can sniff the air again. Stiles doesn’t know what she’s looking for— to him, the tunnel just smells like pure human sewage. They continue on in the same way, careful near corners and weary during long stretches of the pipe.

Stiles is pretty sure that his knees are about to give way when Rowan pulls him around another corner and a small crescent of light shines down onto the mossy floor from the ceiling. Rowan’s hand slips from Stiles’ and she scurries toward the small metal ladder welded to the wall adjacent to the manhole. She climbs to the top and wedges her fingers into the narrow gap and pushes with a grunt, the metal disk grating across the surface above.

In the new light, Stiles can see Rowan motion to him before she climbs to the top of the ladder and slips out of the hole like a shadow. He follows her reluctantly and clambers out of the hole, his scraped knees brushing against the cold metal. The greying late-afternoon sky burns Stiles’ vision and he covers his eyes with his palms, taking his first breath of fresh air since yesterday.

Once his eyes have adjusted, he squints at the landscape around them. It’s as dull and depressing as wherever he was when Rowan took him down into the sewers, but this time, they’ve sprouted up in some type of industrial district, the tall ghosts of long-abandoned buildings towering above them. Broken down cars litter the street and small pieces of trash blow around, picked up by the light breeze that ruffles Stiles’ hair.

Rowan waves her hand in front of his face, “Uh, Earth to Stiles? We need to move fast. The wall is still about a half of a mile from here and there shouldn’t be any omegas between us if I actually know where I am, but you’re paying me back once the sun sets which so happens to be very, _very_ soon.”

“How am I paying you back, exactly?” Rowan jogs slowly across the street and crouches down, Stiles echoing her movements and following her to where she squats next to a faded blue mailbox. He feels like a puppy following its master.

“My brother was taken by the militia and you, my friend, are going to be the bait.” Rowan looks to Stiles and bares her yellowed teeth in a smile, “Excited?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Rowan turns and takes off into a sprint, weaving through a maze of cars and dodging flying trash and tumbleweeds. Stiles tries to keep up, but his knees still hurt like a bitch and he swears his joints could be compared to an old man’s. He lags behind but keeps an eye on Rowan as she vaults rotting tires with a devilish smirk. She stops running when she reaches the corner of the next building, flattening herself against crumbling red brick. She raises her head and sniffs the air, eyes alert as she motions with her hand for Stiles to follow.

Once Stiles is standing behind her with a confused look plastered across his face, she grabs his wrist and darts through the building’s empty doorframe. Stiles lets himself be guided along as Rowan dives into the shadows and crouches on top of a pile of collapsed ceiling tiles.

“What’s—“ Rowan clamps a hand over Stiles’ mouth and shushes him with a hiss. She motions through the storefront window and Stiles peers over the splintered wood frame, his eyes following her bony finger to where she points down the road.

A group of seven howl with manic laughter as they amble down the cracked pavement and stumble through the endless maze of garbage. Each has skin that is tan from exposure to the sun and stretched taut over toned muscles. All of their clothes are ragged and hang from their bodies, stained crimson to match their exposed claws. Three have dried blood caked down their chin, but as far as Stiles can tell, they don’t seem to care.

“Who are they?”

Rowan elbows Stiles in the ribs, “ _That_ is an omega faction. Also, _be quiet_. Just because they’re omegas doesn’t mean they have your shitty hearing. Even without the strength of a legitimate pack, they’re still strong enough to beat both our asses.”

Stiles and Rowan huddle beneath the frame of the window, silent and out of sight, until Rowan nods toward the door. “I can’t really hear them anymore. They should be far enough away that they won’t be able to hear us if we go the way they came.” Rowan hops off the pile of rubble and slinks out the door. Stiles isn’t as graceful and he slips, sliding down the pile on his butt and scraping the exposed skin of his legs on the rough fiber of the ceiling tiles.

He stands and groans, dusting off the back of his pants and poking wearily at the new abrasion. His list of injuries is slowly growing. _Wonderful_.

Glass crunches under the soles of Stiles’ shoes as he walks through the doorframe, shielding his eyes from the sun as it bounces off the broken shards of glass from a window on the opposite side of the road. He blinks back the spots dancing in his vision and the wind blowing through the street whistles in his ears. And then it’s silent.

And Rowan is—

Gone?

Panic floods his mind and he can physically feel his heartbeat spike, his body being pumped with adrenaline. He stills and tries to breathe quietly through his mouth, listening for footsteps or any sign of life other than his own; the only sound that he can pick up over the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears is the eerie whistle of the wind as it blows through the small cracks and crevices of the buildings surrounding him.

 _She couldn’t have just disappeared, right?_ Even with his extremely limited knowledge regarding werewolves, he’s pretty sure that teleporting isn’t an ability they possess.

“Rowan?” Stiles hisses. A stick snaps behind him and he whips around, falling backwards as he collides with a firm mass. He lands on his ass and the back of his head collides with the rotting plastic of a newspaper box with a hollow bang, the skin of his palms scraping across the concrete as he tries to catch himself. He massages the back of his head, groaning as his eyes travel upward over ripped jeans and a ragged t-shirt. Cobalt irises meet his own and one simple word comes to him before a clawed fist is rushing towards his face.

 _Fuck_.

 


	4. the sun will be guiding you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i haven't updated in a while but i'm done with school until august! hell yeah
> 
>  **this chapter contains non-consensual elements** , but if there are any other possible triggers, please feel free to let me know!! tags have been updated accordingly

Stiles’ head is pounding and it seems like all the blood that should be distributed across the rest of his body is pooling inside his skull, making it feel like a slowly expanding balloon that’s millimeters away from popping.

Small black smudges dance at the edges of his vision and the ground flies beneath him like a treadmill set on high— but he’s almost upside down, which would make it nearly impossible for him to be the one doing the running. A calloused hand is clamped down around his wrists, another tightly secured around his hips like a living belt. He’s being carried fireman style over broad shoulders, his face pressed against damp cloth that smells like old pennies and dust.

The bridge of his nose is numb and when he shifts his face to the right against the shoulder that his face is resting against, pain blossoms from his nose and across his right cheekbone. Even without looking in a mirror, he can take a guess that the skin around his eyes is purpling in bruises. He strains to remember what happened after Rowan disappeared, and who the person under him is.

_Oh yeah—_

He got punched in the face. By some rando buff dude.

Then it hits him.

 _Well, not literally, but you know what I mean_.

The guy who sucker punched him in the face is probably the same guy whose shoulders he’s so awkwardly stretched over. And his nose is probably broken, or close to it, based on the fact that it hurts like a bitch and he’s so congested that he has no other choice but to breathe through his mouth if he doesn’t want to asphyxiate himself.

He tries to wriggle out of the man’s grasp, but a low growl rumbles beneath him and the arm around his waist tightens, along with the hand that is keeping his arms locked in place. Stiles gets the message and stills, looking around for any sense of familiarity, knowing damn well he wont be finding it anytime soon.

They turn down a narrow alleyway and a door creaks open, Stiles’ captor walking through it and not seeming to mind one bit when Stiles’ head almost collides with the doorframe hard enough to leave a golf ball-sized bump on his forehead.

Stiles’ head bounces on his captor’s back as they mount countless flights of stairs, his vision blurring in an out of focus from the movement until he’s being carried through a tall doorframe and out into a long, barren hallway. The floor is covered in a thick layer of dust and the only proof of disturbance is a thinly worn path of overlapping footprints leading back and forth from the stairwell to an open door, which just so happens to be the one that Stiles’ captor walks right through and slams shut. The sound of the door banging against the wooden frame echoes throughout the building, cutting through the eerie silence.

The arm around Stiles’ waist loosens and he begins to slide off the man’s shoulders and onto a folding metal chair in the middle of the room, his head lolling back and hitting a wooden stud. He groans and tries to rub at the already-sore spot on the back of his head, but cold metallic links slither around his wrists and down around each of his ankles, securing both Stiles and the chair to the wooden post. A small click follows and Stiles tries to yank his hands away from the sides of his body, but he’s stopped short by the chains that tether him to the chair, secured by a bulky rusting padlock.

The metaphorical cherry on top of Stiles’ already freaky/shitty day. Being chained to a post like a dog.

Metal links clank as the man jerks them downward, testing the padlock’s durability and humming in satisfaction when it holds steady. It’s not like Stiles would be able to break free anyway, keeping his extremely not-supernatural level of strength in mind.

Stiles groans, his nose still throbbing from the force of meeting a fist head-on. His heart is hammering in his chest and he’s pretty sure he’s actually shivering from the overwhelming amount of new  _everything_  that he is forcibly taking in all at once, but he deals.

“Why did you take me?” His voice cracks but he doesn’t care, not in front of some psychopath who just kidnapped him. He just wants to know  _why_ , and  _why him_? He twists in the metal chair and looks at the man straight on.

“Because I can smell you,” the man walks around the chair and squats down in front of Stiles, looking him up and down like he’s searching for something he knows should be there, “Even through the shit on your clothes and iodine soaked into your skin, there’s something about your scent. It’s barely there, but there’s something that puts you apart from everything else that wanders around out here.”

The man’s eyes flicker down to Stiles’ muddy sleeve and back up, eyeing him, making him feel like prey being stalked by its predator.

“Got something to hide?”

Stiles shakes his head.

The man thumbs Stiles’ sleeve up around his elbow, frowning and clicking his tongue at the layers of grime and sewage packed onto Stiles’ skin. He stands and disappears from Stiles’ view, then returns with a bucket of grey water and a ragged cloth covered in grease stains. He dunks the cloth into the water and scrubs the mud away from Stiles’ skin until it’s tinged pink and rubbed raw, revealing the five red bands that encircle his upper forearm.

“Lucky me.” The man grins and places a calloused hand under Stiles’ jaw, rubbing tentatively at the bruised skin of his cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, making Stiles flinch and recoil from the touch. “It’s extraordinary. I’ve seen branded humans outside the wall before, but never as sane as you seem to be. I thought all the beasts had turned by now.”

“I’m not a beast,” Stiles spits out. He doesn’t know how else to respond.

The man wraps a hand around the red bands on Stiles’ arm, squeezing a bit too tight, “These tell a different story. I have no goddamn clue how you’ve managed to resist turning for so long, but just because you aren’t a snarling, drooling mess doesn’t mean you aren’t a beast. Your hands are just as dirty.”

“I—“ Stiles falters, “what do you mean?”

Standing back up, the mans hands leave Stiles’ arm to tap his nose, “I can smell the blood and sweat of an omega on your palms, even through the scent of another female omega that you reek of.”

Stiles’ head snaps up, his heart beating out of his chest, “Rowan? Is that who you’re talking about?”

“I don’t know her name, but she’s a coward, whoever she is. Booked it right when she saw me. Left your sorry ass for dead.”

“Did you see where she went when she left? She could be looking for me right now. What if—“

“Shut up!” The man yells into Stiles’ ear, making him jolt away. He would’ve fallen out of the chair if the chains weren’t keeping him locked in place. “You’re so fucking talkative, but I’m betting you’ll go for a pretty penny once I tame you. Alphas don’t pay for disobedience, they pay for compliance.”

Stiles’ jaw gapes open.  _Tame him? What the fuck does that even mean?_

The man takes him by the jaw, making sure Stiles is looking him straight in the eyes, “But first, I’m going to have my own fun.”

Sliding down his own torso, the man’s hand settles over his crotch, groaning as he palms himself through the thick material of his jeans with one hand and clamps down on Stiles’ shoulder with the other, thickening claws digging into his skin through his hoodie. Stiles whimpers, his stomach too overwhelmed by the steady waves of nausea to cope. His cheeks burn red and he turns his face away from the man, clenching his eyes shut and praying that  _if this is a dream, please let me wake up_.

The hand around his shoulder moves to stroke down his cheek, the sharp drag of pointed claws against sore muscle making him shiver. “This won’t be your first time, will it? I thought with a face like that you would’ve at least been blown once or twice, but maybe it’s rude of me to make an assumption.”

Stiles whimpers and wildly shakes his head against the palm of the man, desperately wishing he could escape, “Please stop— I don’t—.”

“You know, you should really be more careful— I only caught you just because you were being careless. Looking like that and smelling the way you do is dangerous; you’re practically begging to be fucked by the first omega you come across.” The man’s hand returns to its position on Stiles’ shoulder as the other pops the button of his jeans, slowly pulling down the zipper and dipping below the waistband of worn black boxer briefs. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to be gentle.”

The man’s breath hitches and he shoves a knee between Stiles’ legs, resting against the folding metal seat of the chair. His head falls and he mouths at the exposed junction of Stiles’ shoulder with blunt canines, panting against his skin. Even though the air fanning across Stiles’ neck is grossly warm, his chest erupts in goosebumps and he cringes with every pleasured sigh that comes from the man’s mouth.

Stiles is confused and terrified and fucking uncomfortable to say at the least, and that’s being  _extremely_  generous.

Even while facing away and trying his damn hardest to physically disassociate from his body, Stiles can feel the man’s movements as the chair shifts awkwardly beneath him, the man grinding roughly against his own palm and moaning into Stiles’ shoulder, wet with saliva.

“Ah, fuck— you’re hotter when you’re quiet, y’know? I like it.“

The man’s jaw loosens against Stiles’ shoulder and his movements stop abruptly, but before Stiles has the chance to react, a warm mass begins to shift back and forth against one of his legs and the blunt canines digging into his shoulder lengthen, pressing deeper into the muscle and making him whine.

He dares to open his eyes and can see in his peripheral that the man is rutting against his leg, the thin cotton of his briefs being the only thing that separates his skin from Stiles’ own.

If his stomach wasn’t so empty, Stiles would’ve thrown up on the spot, but all he can do is dry heave and whimper as the man’s pace quickens and loud sickening moans echo off of the bare concrete walls.

With a grunt, the man’s body stutters against

his thigh and the sharp canines poking against his shoulder sink in, breaking the skin and letting blood flow freely from the exposed flesh. Stiles cries out and yanks his wrists madly against the chains, trying to do anything just to _get away_.

The man’s jaw goes slack and his long canines release with a nauseating squelch, leaving Stiles’ shoulder numb with pain. The blood had pooled inside the deep bite, but without the man’s teeth acting as a stopper, Stiles’ shirt begins to soak up the blood like a sponge, creating a damp crimson patch just below his collarbone.

The man stands up and Stiles suddenly becomes aware of the wet, noticeably warm edge of his shorts sticking to his leg, the feeling of nausea settling over him again like a dense, inescapable fog. The man’s panting is muted in Stiles’ ears as his vision steadily blurs at the edges, but he remains painfully conscious, wallowing in self pity and utter humiliation. He tries to ignore the feeling of the slick on his leg slowly drying, pasting his shorts to his thigh like they had been glued down.

When he hears the cheerful whistling coming from the adjacent room, he fights back the tears that sting his eyes.

It isn’t until an hour after that Stiles hears movement within the apartment. The sound of fabric rustling is followed by the slamming of a door, and then silence. He waits, awake and bored out of his mind. He ends up turning his chair ever so slightly, just enough that he can almost-comfortably twist around and see the expanse of the wooden stud. It’s plain, but a large piece of the post has begun to splinter and he picks at it with the hand closest to the post.

The tips of his fingers have been painfully scratched raw, but by the time Stiles is done, he is still sure that he’s alone in the apartment and has the large splinter of wood sitting under his right leg, hidden but accessible enough that he can immediately grab it if he needs to.

He hopes he doesn’t.

Hours pass and Stiles can’t help but become antsy. His ass feels like it would slide right off if he stood up and his arms have gone completely numb, his legs following close behind. The disgusting smell of sweat is still sharp in his nose, and the image of the man rutting against his leg is still fresh in his mind.

He can hear someone climbing the stairs, the sound of footstep echoing through the empty building. A door slams and he tenses, waiting and expecting the worst.

And he waits.

And the worst never comes.

He tries to fight the heavy drift of his eyelids, but his body is exhausted and he succumbs to the alluring pull of Passing the Fuck Out™.

Stiles wakes with his head uncomfortably craned backward against the wooden post, leaving him with a gnarly neck cramp and a dried trail of drool down his chin, which he proceeds to wipe off on his shoulder. Golden sunlight streams in through the windows lining the wall close to the ceiling, making Stiles blink back the spots that dance across his vision.

A wave of nausea crashes over him when he remembers the long wooden stake that he had hidden under his leg, panicking at the thought of the stake falling on the ground while he was sleeping.

_What if the man had found it in the middle of the night, and was planning to use it on him just for the irony of it?_

He wiggles his leg and sighs in relief as he realizes he can feel the sharp edge of the stake on the bottom of his thigh. He’s glad it’s still there, but he has to do something soon, or his captor may actually carry through with his plan to sell Stiles to whatever the werewolf equivalent of the black market is.

He’s marveling at the taste of his own morning breath when the door leading to the other room creaks open, his captor leaning against the doorframe, almost nonchalant.

“Good, you’re awake. I thought you had died or something, it’s past noon.”

Stiles wants to quirk his head and ask the bastard why the time to which he sleeps in matters if he’s the one playing prisoner, but he stays quiet.

“We need to work some things out today. The wall opens in three days and if I don’t get you ready in time, I’ll have to wait another week.” The man rubs thoughtfully at a growing stubble.

Stiles’ voice tremors and his heart sinks. “Ready for… what?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. All you need to concern yourself with is behaving.” The man pushes himself up from where he was leaning against the doorframe. “Can you be a good boy for me?”

Stiles nods and tries to look compliant as the man approaches him, feeling like a piece of meat.

“Can I touch you, please?” His voice trembles.

He can feel the sweat collecting on his palms and he wishes he could wipe them on his shorts, but the chains are too restricting.

The man shakes his head and clicks his tongue, “I appreciate that you’re gaining a sense of respect, but I’m not an idiot. You just want me to unchain you so you can make a run for it.”

Putting out his best puppy-dog eyes, Stiles pouts, hoping the man doesn’t see through his act. “No, I’ve changed my mind. I really want to touch you.” He cringes, “I want to make you feel good. Like yesterday.” His fingers tingle where he knows the long wood sliver sits below his thigh, waiting. “I’ll do anything you want me to. _Touch_ anywhere you want me to.”

The man hesitates, his face twisting in concentration.

“If you try to run, I’ll break your fucking legs,” he squats next to Stiles’ side and pulls a key crusted in rust from the back pocket of his jeans, inserting it into the padlock and turning it with a  _click_  that echoes throughout the room.

The chains slowly unravel from their place around Stiles’ left wrist, following with both his ankles and finally, his right wrist. The heavy metal links have left deep red imprints in his skin and he flexes his fingers, feeling the tight pull of the muscles in his arm after being immobile for so long.

Stiles stares at the man as he straightens back up, sitting and waiting for a command. He has to convince his captor that he wants to be here, that he doesn’t want to run. A means to an end, he supposes.

“You’re nervous.” The man’s hand rests on his cheek, stroking lightly at the darkening bruises. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Stiles’ newly freed hand covers this captor’s own. He can feel himself shaking. “I— I’ve never done this before.” He’s pretty sure he’s not lying.

“That’s okay. I’ll guide you, show you how it’s done. That’s how everyone learns.” The man takes one of Stiles’ hands and slides it slowly down his torso, and if the toned muscles Stiles is touching belonged to anybody— literally  _anybody_  else— he might be enjoying himself; however, this is not anybody else and he wants to kick and scream.

He forces himself to stay quiet.

The man lifts Stiles’ hand to his face, taking his pointer and middle finger into his mouth and sucking, moaning obscenely.

Stiles wants to throw up when he feels the wet heat of the man’s mouth encircling his fingers and he resists the urge to shove them deeper down his throat.

_Do werewolves have gag reflexes?_

The man releases Stiles’ fingers from his mouth with a lewd pop and kneels down, settling between Stiles’ legs with a smirk on his face. He begins to undo the drawstring tie securing Stiles’ pants around his hips, which is right where he wants them to  _stay_ , thank you very much.

Stiles can feel the anticipation, like butterflies in his stomach, making his heart beat faster and adrenaline pump through his veins. His captor licks his lips, slipping his fingertips under Stiles’ waistband and pulling.

And Stiles decides at that moment that he is fucking  _done_ with this dude’s weird horny bullshit.

With his captor preoccupied with his crotch (the disgusting bastard), Stiles cautiously slides his right hand below his leg, the splintered wood rough against his fingers as he makes sure he’s got a good grip around the stake. Right when the man leans in, Stiles pulls the stake from beneath his leg and sinks it into the man’s neck just below his jawline. Deep.

His captor releases a gargled yelp and falls to the side, hands clawing at the stake now inches deep into the flesh of his neck. Stiles scrambles up from the metal chair and books it out the door that the man was stupid enough to leave wide open, yanking his pants back up over his hips as he runs.

Stiles rushes through the apartment’s main door and sprints down the long hallway, taking the stairs three at a time and completely disregarding the oncoming feeling of pins and needles racing up his calves. He’s pretty sure the only thing keeping him in motion as he manically flies down the stairs is the insane amount of adrenaline that is being pumped into his body— and thank God for it.

He reaches the ground floor and skids to a stop at the door leading to the alley, the same door they came through that Stiles almost creamed his forehead on. He scrambles for the knob and shoulders the door, its stubborn rusting hinges not wanting to budge; when he finally manages to shove the damn thing open, he flails and falls to the ground of the alley, his body following the momentum of the door as it swings open.

He can feel the scabs on his knees reopening as he picks himself up, but he doesn’t have the time to care and takes off running, not having any desire to wait around to find out how long it actually takes for a werewolf to heal a stab wound to the neck.

He hopes that the man’s desire to stay alive is stronger than his desire to feel the thrill of the chase, because Stiles is certain that it would be short-lived.

He runs down the alley and turns the corner, painfully aware that he has no idea where he is. But anywhere is better than being back in that room so he sprints down the long stretch of road until he’s sure he has put a safe distance between himself and his now post-captor.

It must’ve rained before he escaped because small muddy puddles dot the edges of the road, giving him an idea.

He jogs over to a puddle and squats down, pulling back his right sleeve. He’s still not used to the five bright red bands that stare back up at him, especially against his skin, which apparently has yet to ever see the sun long enough to build up a sufficient tan. He dips his fingers into the puddle and cringes as he’s rewarded with a disgusting squelch, spreading the mud across his arm until he’s sure that none of the red peeks through.

He stands back up and starts jogging again, hoping to find something at least a tad promising.

After an hour of running up and down random streets (because honestly, he has no fucking clue where he is or where he should go) and having to stop multiple times to catch his breath, Stiles can feel the heat radiating from the asphalt through the soles of his shoes as he runs, the sun beating down on him from where it sits low in the sky, the afternoon slowly shifting to evening.

He can’t really tell what the exact time is, because he isn’t an astronomer, but he does know that he doesn’t want to get caught with his metaphorical pants around his ankles in the dark.

He had his captor’s apartment (if you could even call it that) last night, and the sewers the night before, but now, he has nowhere to go.

At least, nowhere safe.

The marks on his arm are hidden and the mud he packed onto his skin is dry by now, but that doesn’t calm his nerves in the slightest. He’s still out in the open and vulnerable, which is a position he really,  _really_  doesn’t want to be in right now.

He peeks into a few buildings, because why not, but doesn’t find any form of security. All of the buildings in the area are missing doors or windows or exterior walls, apparently, which he doesn’t really understand.

Maybe he should be lowering his expectations.

He jogs around the corner of a building with a crumbling concrete stud, skidding to a stop when he realizes he’s made a big fat mistake.

A tight formation of six men clad in army green cradling very real-looking rifles are marching down the street, straight toward him. He can see the first man’s head snap to attention, and they make eye contact for a brief moment before he spins around and takes off running in the opposite direction.

The sound of yelling echoes off the walls of the buildings surrounding him, and he can hear the pounding of rubber soles against the pavement getting closer, too scared to turn his head to look and verify.

He sprints and turns another corner, slipping across loose gravel and having to catch himself from falling before he takes off again. He can hear one of the six men gaining on him particularly fast and his stomach sinks.

_Not again. Please, not again._

He vaults over a fallen road sign, but before he can touch back down to the ground, two small probes make contact with his back and his body goes stiff like a board. His feet hit the ground and can feel his ankles pop as he crumbles downward onto the pavement, his body uncontrollably spasming until the shock coming from the two probes ceases, leaving his entire body buzzing and numb with pain.

His cheek grinds against the asphalt and he just wishes he could give his knees a break— he’s sure that he’ll be left with a collection of overlapping scars from all the shit he’s been through already.

His muscles twitch and he groans.

Rough hands pin his arms together behind his back and he flinches at the feeling of cold metal enveloping his wrists, the same sensation following as metal collapses around his ankles, weighing his legs down. Electricity hums and he can feel the hairs on his arms stand up as the cuffs around his wrists fuse at the sides.

He can feel the sharp, oddly familiar prick of a needle plunging into his bicep and slowly, the world starts to spin, the blue of the sky dripping into the grey of the pavement and mingling until his eyes drift shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a disease called 'making stiles pass out for the plot convenience' and it’s bad


	5. beauty lies beyond the hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for taking so long to update, i went to spain for three weeks without my computer, struggled with writer's block for another two and finally got into the grind. this chapter is a bit longer, so i hope it was worth the wait :)
> 
> also, the age difference between stiles and derek is smaller in this fic than it is in canon (four year age difference rather than seven)

 

 

“— resist the turn—“

“— relatively docile—“

“— sixteen, maybe older.”

Unfamiliar voices fill Stiles’ head and pull him from unconsciousness, muddled in his ears like he’s hearing them from underwater.

“It’s one hell of a stretch, but I suppose it could be possible. If anything, it could be a weak Level One based on its build.”

Stiles’s eyes lethargically flutter open and he tries to shift his arms from where they’re trapped behind his back, flinching when the cold metal around his wrist cuts uncomfortably into his skin.

His vision slowly clears and he can see that he’s sitting in a room that slightly resembles an office, the walls and ceiling made from some type of wood panels. A thick metal table sits to his right, the papers that scatter across its surface crowned by a minimalistic black and white tag that simply states ‘Campbell’. Two men reside inside the room with him, one with broad shoulders and a clenched jaw leaning against the edge of the table while talking to the other.

Stiles can’t help but notice the five thin lines shaven into the first man’s greying hair just above his ear. The second man sports the same hairstyle, but instead of five lines, there are three shaven into his dirty blonde.

The older man’s eyes slip to Stiles.

“Shaw,” the man taps the younger on the shoulder and motions in Stiles’ direction, “It’s awake.”

Shaw turns his head to Stiles, eyes feigning interest. He switches his focus to a long metal rod that rests against the canvas wall, moving to pick it up. He turns it in his hand, fingers distractedly massaging the metal and feeling at the sharp corners that make the rod square.

Cautiously approaching Stiles’ right side, he uses the metal rod to ruck his sleeve up above his elbow, putting the ring of mud around Stiles’ arm on display for the older man. “The scouts chased him down during their patrol of the seventh district, but his forearms are covered with mud and no way in hell am I getting close enough long enough to thoroughly remove it, so we can’t determine what he is. It’s possible that he’s a beast, but we won’t know until we can properly see if he is branded or not. He could be hiding something worse for all we know.”

The older man crosses his arms, his expression almost bored, “And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Have one of the rookies wash him down so we can tell if he’s a beast or not. If he isn’t, then that’s one less unaccounted beast outside the wall. If he is, then we can decide what to do with him after, but no matter your decision, it’s a benefit to the militia. Especially to this branch, sir.”

The older man huffs, “If you can prove to me he isn’t just a weak omega and a waste of my time, then I’ll consider having you and your patrol squad promoted.”

With a curt nod, Shaw yanks Stiles to his feet, keeping both his wrists in the tight grip of one hand while opening the door with another, following as he quickly pushes Stiles out the door. The cuffs around his ankles still weigh down his every step as he stumbles, kicking up red dirt. It must be sometime late at night, but the large lights that tower overhead flood the entirety of the camp in light; Stiles might’ve mistaken it for late morning if the bright crescent of the moon wasn’t directly in his line of sight.

“Hayes.” The older man motions to a younger soldier— one of the many with only one stripe shaved above his ear— sitting next to a smoldering fire in front of one of the many army-green canvas tents that span outward from the path they make their way down. “Come here.”

The soldier immediately stands to attention and approaches the three as they continue walking, Stiles tripping over his own feet as their pace slows. “Campbell, sir. Am I needed?”

“I need you to wash down this... creature. We are unable to determine its species.” The older man, apparently the owner of the office Stiles had woken up in, gestures in Stiles’ direction.

The young soldier’s Adam’s apple bobs and he nods. “Of course, sir.”

Motioning for the young soldier to follow, Campbell continues down the path through tens of identical army green tents, Stiles and Shaw (still pushing him relentlessly from behind) in tow.

If he peers around Campbell’s shoulders, Stiles can see a large pole that sprouts vertically from the ground in the middle of a small clearing, four smaller poles extending outward from the top, making the mechanism resemble a large propeller. A pair of blue plastic cuffs hangs down from each of the four individual poles along with a hose ending in a fixture that shares closer resemblance to the head of a pressure washer rather than a shower.

With a tight hold on his wrists, Shaw steers him toward the odd fixture with the rookie following hesitantly behind, shoving harder when he feels Stiles defiantly dig his heels into the dirt.

Stiles’ face is carelessly shoved against the main pole with one of the man’s shoulders as his hands roughly release the cuffs around Stiles’ wrists, the air immediately cooling the sweat that had collected under the irritating metal. Rough hands lift his freed arms to meet the blue cuffs that hang from the closest pole, immediately replacing the metal cuffs with sharp plastic that chafes the already raw skin of his wrists.

If he was just a bit taller, tall enough to let the cuffs hang slack, he might’ve been able to relieve some of the pressure on his shoulders, but even standing on his tippy toes, the connection between the cuff and the pole is taut and the cuffs remain unrelentingly painful.

The sleeves of Stiles’ hoodie are ripped from his arms, completely destroying it (it’s not like he had an outrageous desire to continue wearing it anyway). The rookie, Hayes, steps in front of Stiles and removes his t-shirt by shredding the thin polyester from the collar downward, the friction of the ripping material burning his skin.

Hayes tosses the mangled t-shirt to the ground and turns toward Campbell. “Should I strip it completely, sir?”

Stiles’ stomach twists and he looks to Campbell, waiting for his command like it’s a death sentence.

“Leave the pathetic creature with some of its remaining self-respect intact.” Clenching his jaw, Campbell looks away.

Hayes approaches and removes Stiles’ shoes before unfastening the drawstring of his shorts with trembling, clumsy fingers, eventually pulling each of Stiles’ legs through the designated hole before flinging the disgusting garment aside.

Stiles is left naked aside from a pair of grey briefs. He lets his head fall so his chin is almost touching his collarbones, cheeks burning red in shame.

He hears the clinking of metal from behind and barely has time to slouch his shoulders and curl into himself before freezing cold water hits his back with such force that he swings forward in the blue plastic cuffs, his toes scuffing through newly wet dirt. The pressure of the stream of water against his skin isn’t much unlike how he imagines being hit with a thousand tiny bullets would feel like, sharp and intrusive in the most uncomfortable way possible.

Tremors wrack through his body as he involuntarily flinches away from the water, his teeth chattering and lungs heaving as he gasps against the shock of the cold.

He’s thrown a curveball when powdered soap is tossed at him in heaping scoops, leaving the terrible taste of lye in his mouth as he coughs through thick clouds of soapy dust in the air. He can feel the nauseating sensation of Hayes’ calloused hands scrubbing white, fluffy, unfitting suds into his skin wherever he can reach, including across the ring of mud around Stiles’ forearm.

The frigid jet of water resumes and Stiles slowly twists, ducking into the stream and watching from behind his bangs as white bubbles turned-grey rain to the ground.

Slowly, he can feel the layers of grime from the past three days being washed away and accumulating in the hazy grey puddle at his feet: the filth that had collected on his skin and under his clothes from the time he had spent with Rowan, the blood caked deep in the cracks on his skin from the attack in the sewers, sweat from the exertion of confusedly running down countless roads and the patch of dried cum on his leg that he wishes he couldn’t remember.

By the time the jet of water ceases, Stiles’ entire body trembles and his skin is pebbled with goosebumps. His teeth chatter and his grey briefs stick to him like a second skin, not doing as much to preserve the remaining shred of his dignity as they had before. He shakes his head from side to side, sending droplets of water flying from the ends of his hair.

Hayes’ face slowly dawns the expression of pure horror as the white suds previously concealing the five bands circling Stiles’ forearm drip to the ground. The tattoos bear as a warning, the red of the ink stark against Stiles’ skin, glossy and pink from the relentless pounding of the water.

The metal shower head falls to the ground as Hayes lurches away and yells, “Five! It’s a Five!” He looks to Campbell in terrified confusion, eyes wide open like a deer stuck in the headlights with nowhere to run. The grey haired man motions with his hands and suddenly Stiles can’t see further than five feet in any direction, his view obstructed by the tens of automatic rifles that are all pointed directly at his head.

He squeezes his eyes shut and waits to explode.

Instead of gunfire, a low, gravelly chuckle follows. The voice he recognizes as Campbell’s barks out to the rest of the camp, “Tell Hale to get his ass over here with the electromags, we’ve got us a Five!”

Stiles opens one eye, peeking through to see the ring of rifles parting, a man with broad shoulders and dark hair filling the space and slowly approaching. Even though the overhead behind the man cast his face into the shadows, Stiles can see something flicker in his eyes, something he can’t quite place.

He almost has the chance to watch the play of emotions across the man’s face— sadness and familiarity like a memory long forgotten— but it returns to an agitated grimace in a flash. When he can’t be more than a foot away from Stiles, the man breaks the silence, voice deep and soothing in Stiles’ ears.

“I’m going to release you from these cuffs.” The man points to the blue plastic currently restraining Stiles’ wrists. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still.”

Stiles remains silent. What the man doesn’t know is that he couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. His body has gone stiff with fright and both of his arms have gone completely numb.

The man shifts upward and Stiles can distantly feel his arms fall to his sides, the phantom feeling of the cuffs’ sharp plastic barely registering as he watches the man before him. Even though it’s dark, he is close enough now that Stiles can see his eyes, irises an intricate ring of deep emeralds and ambers laced at the edges by gold.

A momentary calm settles over him and he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“That’s it. You got a name, kid?” Without breaking eye contact, the man lifts one of Stiles’ arms and clamps something around it. It’s not really heavy, more of a new, odd pressure stretching from his wrist to just below his elbow, “I’m Hale.” He repeats the same process with Stiles’ other arm.

Blinking sluggishly, Stiles glances down at his arms, fuzzy confusion settling over him.

Hale jolts back and points something in Stiles’ direction, the devices clamped around his forearms humming to life and pulling together like they have a mind of their own. Stiles tries to pull his arms apart but can’t.

Kneeling down at his side, Hale lets out a deep breath, hot against Stiles’ shin. “Don’t move.” Instead of the soft, soothing tone it had once been, his voice is harsh. He clamps cold metal casing around both of Stiles’ legs, spanning from a few inches below his knee to just above his ankle. Once the last device clamps down and he has backed away, Hale points something at Stiles again— a small black remote— and his legs fuse together of their own accord.

The ring of rifles surrounding Stiles is lowered and the camp collectively sighs in relief.

“Damn, Hale, that was amazing. It’s been a while since we caught a Five this far out.” One of the soldiers claps Hale on the back. “Good thing it’s a mellow one, right?”

The ring of rifles eventually dissipates, the men filing back into their tents and returning to their respective fires.

But not Hale.

With tense shoulders and eyebrows pulled together, Hale’s eyes bear as a warning as he steps in front of Stiles, “If you so much as flinch, these cuffs have the capability to release an electrical current strong enough to stop your heart before it can even finish a beat. Do you understand?” he warns.

Stiles doesn’t dare answer. Doesn’t nod his head or move his jaw— just shifts his eyes from the cuffs circling his arms to Hale’s own.

“Unless you need to talk. Or grunt. I don’t know what a Five does.” Hale narrows his eyes and shifts a little closer, “Can. You. Understand. Me?” He annunciates each word heavily and Stiles _almost_ feels insulted.

His stomach growls in protest at not being fed since… well, he can’t really remember. He whispers, “I’m hungry.”

Even as quiet as it is, Hale jumps at the sound of Stiles’ voice, his eyes widening in shock. “You can _talk_?” He looks back toward the camp and then reaches into his pocket. “If you bite me, I’ll shock the living hell outta you.” He pauses. “Open your mouth.”

Stiles obeys and a small round disk is placed on his tongue. Once Hale’s fingers are clear of his teeth, he closes his mouth and the disk dissolves into foam. It doesn’t have any distinct flavor, but the hunger that had been continually digging into his stomach and pushing up against his ribs is quickly sated and his eyelids grow heavy, drifting shut as the world wavers and slowly disappears.

 

⁂

 

Stiles wakes from the absurd dream he was having with a start, fuzzy images of needles and unfamiliar faces interrupted by the bright red of his eyelids, heavy as he squints against the sunlight streaming through the army-green canvas stretching above his head.

He tries to bring his hands up to his face to rub the sleep from his eyes, but his arms remain immobile. Everything from the day before rushes back immediately, including the cold metallic reminder of the cuffs spanning down his forearms and up his shins. Along with the cuffs, he’s been securely zipped into a puffy, dark blue sleeping bag.

Groaning, he tries to stretch as much as he can, carefully rolling his shoulders, pointing his toes, and arching his back. Somebody must’ve moved and re-dressed him after he fell asleep, rough cotton scratching at his skin as he shifts.

The flap of the tent is pushed away and the head belonging to a man with two stripes shaven above his ear pops through the opening. Stiles peers up, straining his still slightly-blurry vision to see the man’s face as it turns sour and disappears just as fast as it came.

“Tell Hale the beast is awake.” Stiles is left in silence until the pounding of footsteps nears.

He clenches the muscles in his stomach and shakily pulls himself up to a sitting position, the weight of the cuffs around his arms really doing him no favor. The flap of the tent swishes open and he tries to twist his body, but the muscles above his hips protest the movement, sending a sharp pain shooting up his side.

A low growl sounds behind him, “Don’t move.”

Stiles’ body virtually turns to stone and he can feel the canvas beneath his ass shift as someone enters the tent, Hale’s face quickly coming into view as he rounds Stiles and squats down. “I have to take your right cuff off and take a blood sample, but if you so much as think about running, I’ll shock you without a second thought. Understand?”

He nods.

Hale pulls his bound arms from the folds of the sleeping bag piled around his waist and points the small remote in his hand at the cuffs circling Stiles’ arms. The cuffs separate, the one covering his right forearm clicking open and falling into Hale’s waiting hand. He places the cuff on the ground and grabs for the slender syringe poking out of the back pocket of his pants, quickly sliding the small needle into the crease of Stiles’ elbow and pulling at the plunger, the barrel promptly filling with dark crimson blood.

Stiles feels a bit queasy when the barrel is completely full, barely registering the feeling of the cuff returning to it’s station around his right arm and fusing with the other around his left. Hale carefully pockets the syringe and unzips the sleeping bag around Stiles’ hips, hooking his hands under Stiles’ armpits and dragging him from the tent.

Sunlight warms Stiles’ body as he’s pulled through the tent’s opening and roughly onto his feet. “I need an armed guard, now!” Hale barks out, making Stiles flinch away. The camp, previously buzzing with activity, goes silent.

Boots scuff against the dirt and two of the men who had been sitting in front of one of the many tents in the camp stand up, rifles looming ever-present at their sides. They approach Hale and Stiles with sour expressions etched into their features.

The soldiers stand at attention as they stand before Hale, the shorter of the two speaking up first, “What’s the problem? Sir?” He salutes awkwardly and Stiles can hear the contempt in Hale’s voice as he answers.

“I need someone to babysit this beast while I’m getting its blood tested for verification of the serum’s presence. One guard would be fine,” Hale looks both of the soldiers up and down, “but I suppose two is better than one in this case. I don’t give a shit what you do with it for the time being, just keep it occupied and make sure it doesn’t leave your sight until I come back.”

Both of the men nod frantically.

Before he leaves, Hale pulls the small remote from his pocket and hands it to one of the guards, gesturing to the button that will cause both the cuffs on Stiles’ forearms and the ones circling his shins to send an electrical current through his entire body, at least rendering him incapacitated if not dead as hell.

“I wouldn’t suggest demagnetizing the cuffs unless you want more trouble than is worth your time. Don’t let the fact that it’s acting tame trick you into letting your guard down; a mellow beast is still a beast.” With that, Hale turns and storms off into the camp, the thin syringe containing Stiles’ blood in hand.

The taller of the two soldiers looks to the shorter, a slight smirk creeping across his lips, “What should we do until he comes back?”

“He said he doesn’t give a shit what we do as long as the beast stays here, right?”

Something hard rams into the back of Stiles’ thighs, leaving him to flail forward as much as anyone can flail with their arms conveniently melded together. With his hands cuffed, he cant find his balance and he crashes to his knees, the cuffs around his forearms skidding through the dirt on impact and making a horrible grating sound as the metal slips over small pebbles.

He begins to pull himself back up, but the toe of a boot kicks his arms out from beneath him and he falls face-first into red dirt. His cheek grinds against the ground and he coughs, sending dust flying. Through the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, he can hear the malicious laughter of the two guards.

After remaining on the ground for what couldn’t have been much longer than ten seconds, Stiles gets a boot to his side and he groans.

“What, can’t get up? I thought beasts were supposed to be ruthless,” the toe of the boot, still resting against his side just below his ribs, wiggles and pushes further into abused flesh and muscle. “You’re just a skinny, pathetic excuse for a beast— especially a Level Five. A waste of the serum, if you ask me.”

Too drained to speak or make a feeble attempt to stand, Stiles just squeezes his eyes shut and waits, for a savior or for more physical abuse, he isn’t sure.

“Should we really be doing this?” One of the guards mumbles to the other, voice suddenly lessening in confidence and more in pity. “I know Hale told us he doesn’t give a shit what we do to the beast, but it isn’t even fighting back. It’s just… _laying there_.”

“Are you kidding?” The protesting voice from before doesn’t respond. “Whatever, just pick the stupid thing up.”

Calloused hands grapple at his biceps and yank him from the ground, barely ensuring that he’s regained his balance before letting go. He sways, his ribs finally feeling the full force of being kicked and his vision beginning to blur.

The guards seem to be bored by Stiles, eventually just jamming one of the barrels of their rifles against the back of his neck and commanding him to stand still. He doesn’t protest.

Stiles almost feels joyful— or maybe you could call it relief— when Hale returns. With one hand, he’s stuffing a roll of paper into his back pocket, a bigger syringe than before held tightly in the other, this time brimming with a dull golden liquid.

He looks on in disdain at the two guards that now stand at attention, waiting for their orders.

“Hold him still.”

The guards’ hands secure Stiles’ shoulders. With his free hand, Hale tilts his head to the side and exposes his neck, quickly inserting the syringe into the muscle and pushing down on the plunger until the barrel has been completely drained of the substance that had previously filled it.

He extracts the needle and hands it to one of the guards, ordering the return of the cuffs’ remote and the disposal of the syringe before shooing them away, seeming genuinely annoyed and exhausted after the entire exchange.

Hale leads Stiles through the camp, stopping before a rusting, deserted barrel— one of the ones used to contain the fires that were built at night— surrounded by a ring of small boulders acting as extremely uncomfortable seats.

“Sit,” Hale orders, pointing at one particularly flat boulder. He picks up the yellow plastic bottle sitting at the base of one of the boulders, spraying lighter fluid into the barrel and striking a match. When he throws it into the barrel, flames immediately lick up the inside of the thin metal and heat Stiles’ face. He jerks away from the barrel and Hale jolts sideways, his hand immediately grasping for the black remote in his pocket.

“No sudden moves,” Hale warns, his eyebrows pulling together.

“Sorry,” Stiles grumbles, “the fire burned my face, I couldn’t help it.”

After relaxing considerably, Hale tilts his head to the side and his eyes flick over Stiles’ body, carefully studying him like a particularly intriguing sample under a microscope.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest.

“You’re so… _normal_. Usually, level five beasts go insane a few weeks after getting injected, maybe a month or two maximum if they just so happen to have an amazing level of control over their instincts— but as far as I know, the last known dose of the serum was administered more than four years ago.” Hale pulls the roll of paper he had stuffed in his back pocket out, setting it on the top of his legs and spreading the paper flat with his hands. “I thought that maybe your tattoos were some type of imitation and that’s why you were acting so tame, but the serum’s chemical signature is too prominent in your blood for you to be faking.”

“So… what does that mean?”

“You should be trying to attack me and tear me apart. But you’re not. You’re just… sitting there. I mean, you obviously understand language and have the ability to uphold a coherent conversation, which is unprecedented in beasts.” Hale leans over, perching his chin on his hand and biting at one of his fingernails. “What makes you so special?”

Stiles huffs, “Hell if I know.”

Before Hale has the chance to respond, one of the guards with three shaven lines— a face Stiles vaguely recognizes as a participant of the ring of rifles from the night before— walks up to the fire, something dangling in his grasp. Hale shifts his focus from Stiles to the approaching guard, holding his hand up to shade his eyes from the glare of the morning sun.

The guard halts just outside the ring of boulders, right behind Hale. “Caught this by the wall, thought maybe the beast would enjoy a little barbeque.” He holds out his hand, a wet skinned carcass swinging with the momentum as he grins.

Hale accepts it and frowns. “Thanks, Parker.” He looks up to the guard, who just shrugs. “I’ll see how he likes it.”

Parker looks to Stiles, studying him with dark eyes. “You want me to hang around? Just in case?”

Stiles slouches further into himself and looks away, staring pointlessly into the fire. He can feel both Hale and Parker’s eyes on the back of his head.

“I think I’ve got it under control. Thanks though.”

“Yeah, man. If you do end up needing me, just say the word and I’ve got you.” Parker pats Hale on the back and takes one last look at Stiles before walking away with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Hale pokes a long metal rod through the small carcass and balances it across the edges of the barrel, turning the spit as the flames flare up to lick at the meat. With Hale’s focus directed toward the spit turning in his fingers, Stiles takes the opportunity to study him: from the dark scruff covering his jaw and the deep frown that seems to be permanently set into his lips to irises the color of mint framed by long eyelashes and overall crowned by eyebrows that could _probably_ kill him with one look.

Stiles grinds his heels into the dirt distractedly. “Can I ask you something?”

Hale just grunts.

“Yesterday, before you put these on,” Stiles lifts his arms, the metallic sheath of the cuffs reflecting the flickering orange of the flames, “you looked like you recognized me.”

That gets Hale’s attention, pulling him from whatever trance he was stuck in and forcing him to look at Stiles, his eyes gradually narrowing.

“Do you? Recognize me, I mean. Because I sure as hell don’t. I barely know my name, let alone if it’s even the right one, and I— I don’t even know if I have a last name. What if I don’t have a last name?” If Stiles was free to move about as he pleased, he somehow knows he would be pacing, probably gesturing wildly with his hands just to add to the overall experience. He has too much energy from being immobile for so long and it’s making him jittery.

He knows he should probably stop talking, especially because Hale has explicitly warned him about the cuffs’ capability to ‘shock the living hell’ out of him, but he hasn’t interjected, or even made an attempt at shutting him up yet, so Stiles keeps going.

“I mean, I don’t even know how old I am, for Christ’s sake! I could be fifteen, or maybe I could be twenty three. Who knows? Not Stiles! If that’s even my real name. You wanna take a guess at who doesn’t have a goddamn clue? Big surprise, it’s—”

“Stiles?”

Hale’s voice is quiet, muffled by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, and he’s about to go off on a tangent about how interrupting people when they’re talking is _extremely rude_ , but then he stops, because… _what?_

“What?”

“You said you thought your name is Stiles?” Stiles can’t do anything but stare back at Hale, his jaw hanging stupidly open. Hale apparently doesn’t like that too much and he quirks an eyebrow, looking expectantly at Stiles. “Is that what you said?”

“I—“ Stiles lightly shakes his head, clearing his mind. “Yeah. That’s my name… I think. Why?” He gasps. “Do you know me?”

For the first time since Stiles had met Hale— which wasn’t very long ago— he looks hesitant, unsure of himself. “I… I think so, maybe? You look…” Hale’s eyes cast downward, “familiar, but it’s been… a long time. Do you remember anything else? Other than your name?”

“Uh,” Stiles wracks his brain, scavenging for any information he could haphazardly piece together to somewhat create a memory of who he was. He comes up empty. “No. Nothing. Just that and what’s happened the past few days. Other than that, kaput.” It’s weird, not being able to remember anything. He hadn’t had time to actually think about it before, but now that he’s directly addressing the blank space in his head, he almost feels sick to his stomach.

Hale looks pained.

“How did we know each other? If I am the same Stiles.” He anxiously taps one of his fingertips against his palm. “Were we close?”

“Kind of.” Hale says, shifting his focus back to the spit of meat as he talks, twisting it in his fingers so the side nearest to the fire doesn’t burn. “You were a couple years younger than me, so we went to different schools, but… yeah. I’d say we were friends. Our mothers were close when we were kids, but after your mom passed we kind of… drifted apart. I was in middle school and you had found a new friend, so you didn’t really need me anymore.” Hale pauses, taking a deep breath. “The year of the virus outbreak, my mother pulled me out of school and moved the entire pack down here to be with my uncle, so I thought I’d never see you again.”

Stiles can’t do anything but sit back and take everything in. He had a friend, a mother, an entire life— something concrete that he can latch onto, rather than helplessly clinging to a six letter word he barely acknowledges as a name. Speaking of.

“I feel really, _very truly_ terrible about this but… what’s your name?” _That’s a valid question to ask someone you’ve apparently been good friends with since early childhood, right?_

“Hale.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I know that. I mean, I don’t know your first name. Or your middle name.”

“Derek Sebastian Hale. That’s my full name, but…” Hale hesitates, “nobody has called me anything but Hale for a really, _really_ long time.”

“Derek,” Stiles works his jaw and makes a point of muttering it under his breath a few times, trying to get used to the unfamiliar name on his tongue. “Can _I_ call you Derek?”

Hale— no— Derek scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s probably better that you don’t talk at all, actually. Around the other guards at least. I’m not sure what Campbell will do if he finds out you’re… different. He’s obligated by law to hand any captured beast over to the auction houses, and it’s already pretty rare to actually be able to obtain a level five beast… I can’t imagine what would happen if they got their hands on you.”

“Wait, wait. Hold up,” Stiles sways backward and if his arms weren’t restrained, he would be waving them around in confusion, “Hand me over to the auction houses? What are the auction houses?”

Derek jumps at the movement and his hand jolts to the remote, held up at Stiles in a flash. “No. Sudden. Moves.”

Stiles freezes, his eyes wide and lips pressed into a thin line as claws begin to grow from Derek’s fingertips, replacing blunt human nails. He whispers, so quiet he’s not even sure Derek can hear him. “Sorry. _Shit_ , sorry.” His entire body holds tense until Derek slowly lowers his arm.

“Just because I used to know you doesn’t mean I fully trust you. I want to, but… just give me a little time, alright?”

Stiles barely nods, a short downward twitch of his head that he hopes won’t get him killed. He can understand Derek’s mistrust, so he doesn’t take the threat of being electrocuted to death too harshly.

After eyeing him for a considerable period of time, Derek lets out a small huff, visibly relaxing as his shoulders slouch forward slightly. “Whenever we— the militia— collect a beast, we’re tasked with their transfer from outside the wall to the inside, where they’re then sold from the auction houses, which are _exactly_ what they sound like.”

Derek pulls the metal spit he’s been fiddling with away from the fire, thick grease dripping from the seared skin of the meat and making Stiles’ stomach growl. He hands the spit to Stiles, making sure he has a steady grip before pulling away

Stiles lifts the meat to his face— an extremely awkward arrangement of limbs— and tears into the outside layer with his teeth. Grease spills across his lips and drips to the dirt between his feet.

“I’ve heard rumors that beasts eat rats, but I never really believed them.”

 _Rat_. The very thought should make Stiles’ stomach turn in protest, but hunger doesn’t discriminate, and food is food. He just shrugs, returning to the question he had been itching to ask. “What’s the point of an auction house? Can’t you just… go shopping or something?”

“The main goal of any auction house is to cater to the desires of the higher class rather than the lower, which usually includes wealthy Alphas or the occasional beta with a few grand to blow. Typically they provide collector’s items or designer jewelry; there are a few here and there that offer drugs and alcohol laced with enough wolfsbane to bring down a goddamn freight train of a were. I’ve heard of some shady underground houses that sell omegas and tamed beasts to please clients’ more… personal needs— especially females— but generally they’re sold to the fighting pits.”

“Personal needs?” Stiles pulls back from the spit of meat, knowing full well that grease is now dripping down his chin.

“Claiming, marking, companionship. Sex, in most cases. For reproduction or pleasure, it varies from client to client. Speaking of…” Derek leans forward, pulling the collar of Stiles’ shirt aside with his pointer finger. “Where did these come from? These marks on your shoulder.”

Before, Stiles’ stomach had been sluggishly thrilled with the cooked meat, but now… _oh boy_. “Some guy had me tied up. Said he was going to tame me and he—“ the familiar heat of embarrassment flushes across his cheeks and he mumbles, looking away, “— he used me to get off. Bit me when he… y’know. I think. I don’t really remember.”

Derek chews at his lip. “This is probably really bad timing, but I have to take you to Campbell’s office to fill out your registration forms you so you’re in the system.”

Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs and his voice breaks. “Okay.”

Derek points the cuffs’ remote at him and his legs separate. He stands, pulls Stiles up to a standing position and begins to walk, lightly guiding Stiles with a hand at the small of his back as they make their way through the camp.

They approach the cabin Stiles recognizes as Campbell’s makeshift office, a thick post sticking out from the ground just outside the door, the metal surface closely resembling that of the cuffs circling his forearms. Derek pulls the remote from his pocket and looks to Stiles, “This won’t take very long, but I still have to restrain you.”

Stiles makes a face.

“It won’t hurt, I just have to magnetize your cuffs to this post.” With the push of a button, the cuffs hum to life, the metal casing immediately fusing with the metal surface of the post. Just like the night before, Stiles tugs at the cuffs and they don’t budge. After confirming the stability of the magnetic bond between the post and the cuffs, Derek promptly turns on his heel and walks into the cabin, leaving Stiles completely alone.

 

⁂

 

_Derek pulls the door shut, quickly peeking out the plexiglass window beside it, catching a brief glimpse of confusion still muddling Stiles’ features before Campbell’s voice grates out._

_“Has the beast been securely bound?”_

_Derek nods, settling down into the chair that rests before Campbell’s desk, receiving a satisfied grunt from his superior._

_Thrusting a small stack of papers into Derek’s hands, Campbell sits back in the chair opposite to Derek’s, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers. “Okay, since this is your first gig as guard, I’ll break the contracts down for you. The first three pages are the terms of a social agreement stating that as the beast’s guardian, you are financially liable for any damage dealt by or to the beast until the moment it is signed off to someone else, but I doubt money will be an issue for you.“_

_Campbell’s eyes flick to Stiles, but he quickly focuses back on the stack of papers and clears his throat. “The following five pages are the terms of a contract we have stabilized with the auction houses inside the wall. I’m sure you’re familiar with your uncle’s conditions in regards to the licensing and registration of beasts to prepare them for both the physical and legal transfer between clients, but you have to read through them carefully nonetheless. Speaking of, have you administered the tracker yet? You should’ve received a syringe when you were given the results for the beast’s blood work.”_

_Derek nods in affirmation._

_“Good, moving on. The next four pages refer to the beast’s intended use and treatment requirements, but those terms will be altered to the client’s preference after its purchase, so there is no need to waste any of your time or energy reading through them. Since this exact set of paperwork follows the beast wherever it goes, those last few pages,” Campbell gestures to the blank pages that Derek begins to flip through, “are reserved for the auctioneer and client’s terms of credit and sale conditions, as well as purchase and payment records when the time comes that the beast is actually sold. I prefer the contracts remain in my office until the beast’s transfer, so feel free to read over the terms in here. You can sign—”_

_A siren blares, echoing throughout the camp and ringing loud and obnoxious in Derek’s ears. He recognizes the alarm: the warning of an unwarranted breach of the camp’s borders._

_“Sir?”_

_Campbell nods and Derek jumps up, the legs of the chair scraping across the floorboards and long forgotten as he rushes out the door._

 

⁂

 

Soft clouds of dust billow upward from the ground as Stiles kicks at a small pile of dirt that has settled near the building’s wooden trim. The dirt stains the skin of his heel an earthy shade of rust as he distractedly grinds it into the ground, peering down the path he remembers clearly from last night. The green canvas tents lining the path are flanked by guards picking at the remains of cooked meat and the contents of tin cans.

And for once in the past 24 hours, nobody is looking at Stiles.

The shrieks of an alarm sound out and make Stiles jump, the abhorrent wailing followed by the crackling of an intercom and a muffled voice calling out instructions. He can somewhat make out the words ‘five’ and ‘beast’, but other than that, he’s at a loss to the message’s meaning. The guards nearest to the path jump up and start to run, away from Stiles and to somewhere else in the camp.

His mind a raging mess of confusion and dread, Stiles nears the door, planning on using his foot to kick it and hopefully get Derek’s attention. _It’s not like he can use his hands_. The post is barely close enough, but if he leans sideways far enough, he can reach the door.

Without warning, the cuffs around his forearms hum to life and separate from the post, leaving him to fall sideways and flail. The door of the cabin crashes open, smashing into his face and splitting his lip. He stumbles backward and tastes copper on his tongue, unable to find his balance until one of Derek’s hands wraps around his wrists, pulling him back up.

Derek hisses under his breath, “Shit, shit, _shit_. Stay behind me” He pulls at Stiles’ wrists, dragging him through the camp until they’re both intermixed with the guards, all of which have rifles slung over their shoulders, claws flashing, and fangs sprouting from their gums. When Stiles looks to Derek, the only evidence that he is even relatively riled is the golden glow of his irises that replace the already-familiar emerald, no trace of sharpened fangs or yellowing claws like the others.

His expression is controlled and his grip is steady.

Stiles, however, is about to flip his shit. He can see now, the subjects of which the entirety of the militia surrounds: four men clad similarly in pants that hardly leave anything to the imagination, ripped to the point of just barely hanging off their hips. They stand on their feet, but the angle at which they slouch is almost animalistic, their knuckles inches away from brushing the ground as their fingers curl into fists and their teeth snap at the air.

Derek’s grip on Stiles’ wrist slackens and releases just before he breaks through the ring of guards, all four of the beasts’ attention slipping to him, hunger gleaming in their eyes. He barks out to the rest of the camp, “Tase to stun unless _completely_ necessary!”

Stiles falls to his knees, peering through the legs of the militia to the beasts for a better view of the clearing. He may be scared shitless, but apparently that fear doesn’t even come close to halting his undying curiosity.

Along with everybody else in the ring, Derek pulls a small black device resembling a handgun from the clip on his belt. Stiles can feel a small tingle where the metal of his cuffs makes contact with his skin, the hairs of his arms standing up in response to the surge of electricity. Tens of small metal prongs shoot through the air, embedding themselves into the skin of the bare chests of the beasts.

One of the smaller beasts falls to the ground, body convulsing as small blue bolts wriggle across the surface of its skin and its eyes roll up into the back of its head. The three other beasts, bigger than the first, rip the small probes from their skin and growl.

One breaks from the group, fake lunging one way and darting across the dirt to another. A gunshot sounds and the beast staggers, glancing down at the quickly blackening bullet wound just below its collarbone before continuing. The same guard shoots again and the beast lifelessly crumples to the ground mid-jump, a black hole similar to the one on its chest darkening just between its glazed eyes.

Another beast emerges, one that Stiles hadn’t noticed before as it had been concealed by the two remaining beasts. A young woman that the male beasts tower over as she squats down, palms pressed into the dirt. Her face turns to the sky as her eyes slip shut, her nose crinkling and chest expanding as she takes a deep breath, scenting the air. She freezes and her eyes pop open, slowly traveling to Stiles. Her lips curl to expose sharp yellowing fangs and despite the din of the militia’s shouting and the male beasts’ snarls, he can almost feel the low guttural rumble that comes from her throat.

The two remaining male beasts halt in their violent efforts of attacking the militia and look to the female, following her line of sight straight to Stiles. They crouch down, balancing on the balls of their feet, the knuckles of their fingers grinding into the red dirt.

The two males lunge forward together, the female following close behind as they approach Stiles. He falls back on his ass, scrambling backward in an uncomfortable half crab-walk half butt-scoot with his arms still pinned together. As the beasts close in, guns begin to fire— a sudden, deafening explosion of thousands of bullets discharging and burrowing into the bodies of the male beasts as they topple to the ground.

The third beast, the female, is already perched across Stiles’ chest, flattening him to the ground and forcing his chin upward. She dives for the exposed skin of Stiles’ neck, yellowing fangs already bared.

Electricity hums and the cuffs become unbearably hot against Stiles’ skin. His body convulses in time with the pulsing of energy through the metal sheaths and his jaw rattles with the force, teeth clattering as the beast above him absorbs half of the electricity. Her back arches and her grip on Stiles’ chin loosens until her body is being flung from his own.

Blue sky fills his vision and tremors wrack through his body, a mere aftereffect of the electrical residue.

The cuffs, still searing hot against Stiles’ skin, click and release, his arms falling limp to his sides. The cuffs around his shins follow closely behind and are quickly snatched away. Derek’s face looms in the corner of Stiles’ vision as he straddles the female beast beside him, crimson freckles splattering his cheeks and the metal cuffs held so tightly in his hands his knuckles turn white.

The female beast writhes beneath him and attempts to lunge, her bloodied teeth barely skimming his chin before Derek slams one of the cuffs into her face and she falls to the ground, blood flowing from her nose and eyes rolling into the back of her head before they shut.

Derek’s face boasts pure fury as he yells to the rest of the guards, but his voice is muffled in Stiles’ ears. Four guards throw themselves at the beast, each holding down one of her limbs as Derek quickly clicks the cuffs into place and they fuse together, rendering the beast’s arms and legs immobile.

The guards carefully back away from where both Stiles and the female lay, huffing out labored breaths. Derek pulls Stiles up to a standing position, supporting half his body weight with an arm wrapped around his waist.

“ _That_ ,” Derek huffs into Stiles’ ear, his voice hoarse from yelling, “was a Level Five. Completely feral and insanely dangerous.”

 

⁂

 

Stiles has been shut away in a tent, one of the few that still remains intact after the skirmish from earlier in the day. His forearms are covered in bright red blisters— almost like he’s been severely sunburnt— but for the first time since he entered the camp, he’s not restrained in any way. And the guards are throwing a temper tantrum. Every time he so much as takes a breath slightly louder than normal, he can hear the scuffing of boots and the guards whispering amongst each other.

He never knew how good it felt to move until now. He stretches his legs, rolls his shoulders, and sighs.

The late afternoon sun blinds him as the tent flap is thrown open, the barrels of three separate rifles poking through, inches from his face.

“Did it move the flap? I think it moved.” A voice says, and if Stiles had to take a guess, he’d say it sounded hopeful. The guards are under strict orders from Derek: _If he so much as touches the tent flap, shoot_.

“No, _you_ moved the flap.” Stiles recognizes the voice as Parker, the guard from the fire pit earlier that day. He yells away from the tent. “Hale? Are you almost ready to put the cuffs back on, because the men are jumpy from the attack and no matter my orders, I don’t think I can guarantee the beast’s livelihood for much longer.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The guns are pushed aside and Derek crawls through the tent’s opening. Uncertainty dances across his features, but he quickly lets the flap fall shut, moving to crouch at Stiles’ side. He pulls a small bottle from his pocket, popping the cap and squirting some of the greenish goo onto his fingertips.

Stiles looks at him, silently questioning.

Derek just presses a pointer finger to his lips and begins to carefully slick the goop over the red blistering skin covering Stiles’ arms. Air hisses through his gritted teeth as the goop seemingly sets Stiles’ arm on fire, but after a few seconds, the painful heat is replaced by a soothing cool.

Derek tucks the bottle back into his pocket, reaching behind him and pulling out…

Ankle cuffs.

Stiles groans and boots outside scuffle. The glossy black barrel of a rifle jabs through the tent’s opening and hovers inches away from Stiles’ forehead.

“You need me to shoot it, Hale?” Parker asks.

“No. It’s just moaning about its arms.”

Parker drags the tip of the rifle’s muzzle over the burnt skin covering one of Stiles’ arms. He jerks away, whimpering against the flare of heat that follows in the cold metal’s wake. He swings the barrel to Stiles’ other arm, but Derek grabs it as it hovers inches away from the reddened skin.

“Just leave it alone.” Derek snaps, pushing the muzzle out of the tent.

“Woah, Hale. You need to chill, you’re acting… sympathetic toward the beast.” With a final look of apparent skepticism, Parker drops the tent flap and grumbles something Stiles can’t make out.

Derek shakes his head and shifts so he’s hovering over Stiles’ legs, pushing the hem of his pants above his ankles. Without a word, he clamps the cuffs down around the thinnest part of Stiles’ legs and they hum to life, snapping together and clicking as they lock into place. They’re smaller than the ones he was wearing before, only spanning a couple inches above his ankle rather than up his entire calf, but the cool touch of the metal is the same.

Derek motions wordlessly to Stiles’ hand. When Stiles obeys, he places a familiar small tan disk in the middle of his palm. With a final one-over of Stiles’ arms and the cuffs around his ankles, Derek nods to himself and slips silently out of the tent.

Stiles stares at the wafer nestled in his palm. Abrupt hunger pushes up on his ribs, caving his stomach and making it growl. He pops it in his mouth, and just like the night before, the disk dissolves into a flavorless foam that sates his hunger. He lays on his back with his arms behind his head, staring upward at the canvas ceiling as his vision begins to waver.

He gives in to the food-induced lethargy that pulls the very last bit of strength from his muscles and puts his mind at ease, welcoming the calm and the silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that was... mildly enjoyable?
> 
> i'm currently working on some self indulgent ficlets (one focusing on post-season 3b stiles with nightmares and one with vamp!stiles) but i don't know which one would be more... sought out by readers? 
> 
> opinions?


	6. they're dying to stop you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the torturously long wait, been a little preoccupied with school and some other stuff! i wrote 90% of this chapter in one go, didn't write for months, and finished the last 10% today... i'm a mess.
> 
> anyway, this chapter isn't as long as the last, but i hope it makes up for my huge hiatus :')

 

Stiles is being touched. Warm fingers ghosting over his temple and caressing his cheek. He would shy away, but the gentle touch gives him a small glimpse of what he’s been missing since he woke up in that abandoned house— genuine human contact— and it leaves him wanting more. He leans into the feeling and hums, the movement more instinctual than anything else. The fingers drift from Stiles’ cheek to his mouth, delicately tracing the swell of his bottom lip.

And then they clamp down, wrenching his jaw shut.

A thick strip of fabric is roughly pulled down around Stiles’ eyes and the clammy palm of the hand pressed against his mouth grinds the soft skin of his inner cheek against his molars. A new pair of hands yanks his wrists together above his head and a firm weight settles over his thighs— another body pinning his legs down. Even if he wants to, he can’t fight back, his mind groggy from sleep and muscles painfully exhausted.

He wriggles as another set of hands slides up his shirt, rough against sore muscles. He tries to scream, but a fist collides with his face and his mouth is pulled open, a wadded piece of cloth shoved in roughly. Warm breath fans across his neck and he shivers.

“Stop struggling or I’ll rip your throat out with my claws, and it won’t be pretty.” Cold metal grazes Stiles’ stomach and in one swift slice, the front of his shirt has been cut open, leaving his chest exposed and erupting in goosebumps.

“Looks like he’s taken a beating already, but we need to be sure. Cut his stomach,” the same voice orders to someone Stiles can hear shifting to his right, “It’ll bleed, but if it doesn’t heal, then he’s human. _Pure_ human.”

The sharp point of an object Stiles can only assume is a blade is pressed against the flesh just below his ribs, slicing deep and making his stomach roll. If it weren’t for the giant ball of cloth choking him, he would’ve cried out and probably gagged. Instead, he groans against the dry wad in his mouth and salty tears wet the edges of the blindfold.

“Goddamn. I’ve never seen anything like that outside the wall. I thought all the humans had turned by now.” A finger prods curiously at the edges of the wound, momentarily dipping inside before pulling away, making Stiles whimper through the wad of cloth. “I’ve heard some alphas inside the wall will pay good money for beasts, but a human? I’m betting I could be set for life inside the wall with what we’ll make off him. How much do you think we can get?” The voice to his right is filled with hope.

“We won’t be getting anything but our asses handed to us if we don’t get him out of here now. Wilson, you grab his legs. Logan, take his arms and make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble.” Calloused hands grapple around his wrists and ankles.

Blood surges through Stiles’ body and adrenaline pumps through his veins, devouring the exhaustion in his muscles and feeding them with a strength he hadn’t felt before. As soon as the body on his legs shifts upward, he shoves his knees up into what he hopes is the man’s groin, rewarded with a satisfying grunt. He pulls his wrists from surprised, slackened fingers, balled up fists contacting flesh and resulting in an audible crunch. He rips the fabric wrapped around his eyes away with freed hands.

He can make out two shadows in the darkness of the tent in front of him, one bent over and cursing wildly.

“Goddamnit, even with the cuffs I knew this was a bad idea,” the second shadow slams Stiles back down, one hand keeping his chest tightly pinned to the ground while the other scrambles to get a hold on his wrists. “Stay still, you little bitch.”

Stiles yanks his hands away and pulls the wad of cloth from his mouth.

“Derek!” His scream echoes through the quiet camp before the hand clamps down over his mouth and nose, suffocating him. He claws at the arm but the strength that had been surging through him is minuscule compared to that of a werewolf. His lungs heave and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he prays for air.

A soft glow fills Stiles’ blurry vision and he honest-to-god wonders if he’s going into the light, but he can hear the distant pounding of footsteps and the hand over his face retreats, letting beautiful air enter Stiles’ lungs after what felt like eons.

Flashlight beams shine against the canvas of the tent and outline the broad shoulders of the man now retreating away from Stiles’ body. “Shit, we need to get out of here. Help me with Logan.”

“Fuck Logan, this was his shitty idea in the first place. If Hale finds out we helped him, we’ll get kicked from the program, and I’m not living as an omega for the rest of my life.” The two shadows dart out of the tent and Stiles coughs, his body limp against the hard dirt under the tent’s bottom and energy completely drained. He can hear the steady growth of noise within the camp— voices rising and boots pounding against the ground.

And then Derek is shoving himself into the tent, flashlight in hand, hair sticking up in the back and out from the sides, wild from sleep. His eyes trail over Stiles’ bare shoulders, down to his stomach and to the deep gash bubbling blood and _definitely not healing_.

His eyes flash to Logan, slumped against the tent, his nostrils flaring and pupils blown wide in anger. He tugs his shirt off— a black t-shirt bearing a worn brand of whisky— and hands it to Stiles.

“Put this on and use your shirt to mask the scent before the others get here. I can make an excuse for the smell, but if the others see that you’re still not healing, they’ll know that you aren’t on the verge of turning.” He moves to the side of the tent where Logan still sits, unconscious and bleeding from his nose. Derek grabs him by the collar of his uniform, forcing him upward, “If you touch him again, I swear to God—” Logan’s head bobs to the side like it’s attached to a spring. Derek lets him fall limply to the ground and places two fingers against his neck.

“Holy shit,” Derek looks toward Stiles, “Did you do this?”

Stiles pulls his arms through the sleeves of his shredded shirt and balls it up against his stomach, hissing as the rough material touches the edges of the laceration. He pulls Derek’s shirt over his head, the fabric of his own shirt already sticky from the blood oozing from his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s unconscious and his neck is broken.”

“I—,” Stiles wonders if he heard him correctly, “He’s dead?” _He couldn’t have heard that right_.

Stiles looks down at his hands, his knuckles scratched and already starting to bruise, “How—,” tears begin to well up in his eyes, “I— I didn’t mean to. I just punched him, but I thought I had hit his cheek or something, I didn’t know I could actually—,” Stiles looks up into Derek’s eyes, knowing his own are puffy and glossing over, “I was just trying to stop him.”

Stiles feels something that should be been new and unfamiliar, but he can anticipate it coming on like the electricity of a thunderstorm crackling in the distance. His fingers tingle and his chest tightens, the air coming in and out of his lungs faster than it’s supposed to, but he still can’t breathe. His head is pounding and his ears are ringing. He can see the look of concern quickly stretching across Derek’s face as his lips move in speech, but he’s far away and fuzzy. It’s like someone has dunked his head underwater and he doesn’t know how to swim back up to the surface. He pulls his legs up to his chest, forehead resting against his knees as he rocks back and forth, telling himself to _breathe idiot, just breathe_.

The muffled sound of a voice and the warmth of another body pressing against his own bring him back down to earth. It’s slow, but he can feel the air returning to his lungs for the second time in ten minutes and his thundering heartbeat begins to steady back out.

“Hey, it’s okay. He’s not dead, it’ll just take a while to heal.” Derek’s fingers card through his hair and one of his hands rubs comforting circles against Stiles’ back, “Are you going to be alright?”

Stiles nods, mumbling a small ‘yeah’ against his legs.

The fog in Stiles’ mind is slowly lifting and he stiffens, realizing that Derek is basically hugging him.

Derek feels the tension in Stiles’ shoulders and pulls away, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Usually contact helps me calm down.” Derek’s cheeks burn red and he fishes the remote for Stiles’ ankle cuffs out of his pocket, separating the two sheaths with the push of a button. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Derek stands and ducks out of the tent. Within a few seconds he’s yelling at the men on guard outside.

“I _told_ you not to leave your post!” Derek yells and Stiles jumps, not expecting him to be _so angry_.

“Logan said—“

“I don’t give a damn what Logan said, he’s not your superior officer. I am!” Derek’s voice is sharp and Stiles is thankful he’s not on the receiving end.

“Jesus, Hale, chill. Logan said a superior officer wanted us to take ten. There were three of them so I thought they could handle the Five.” Stiles recognizes the voice as Parker. “Why’re you freaking out so bad? Did something happen?”

“No, it’s nothing I can’t take care of myself, but someone needs to keep an eye on Logan. He was—“

“Attacked by the beast.” Four separate voices finish Derek’s sentence for him. Feet scuffle against the dirt and the flap of the tent is thrown open, four glowing pairs of golden eyes peering cautiously at Stiles.

They’re not the ones staring down the barrels of four military grade AR-15s.

“I don’t know what happened, but Logan was in the tent when he shouldn’t have been.” Derek steps between the four men, separating the rifles so they’re pointing away from Stiles. “I’m getting the kid out of here and into a secure location. He’ll be in my tent for now.”

Parker shakes his head, “Wait— you’re putting him in your tent? He attacked Logan, he’s probably on the verge of turning! Have you lost your damn mind, Hale?” Parker snaps his mouth shut and peers back into the tent, his dark eyes shifting from Stiles to Derek, “Hale. Dude. Is the beast wearing your shirt?”

Derek clears his throat and glances down at his bare chest, shrugging. “Yeah, I guess.” He kneels beside Stiles and releases the cuffs around his ankles, slinging Stiles’ arm around his shoulder and looping an arm under his knees, carrying him out of the tent.

“You’re touching a _Level Five_ , Hale. He doesn’t even have wrist cuffs on! It’s no wonder he attacked Logan, he’s on the verge of turning and you don’t even have him fully restrained!”

Derek halts and glares at Parker. “The beast has been assigned to me, and me alone. I’ll do what I deem damn well necessary for the safety of the camp and if you want to question my position as Guardian, you can go straight to Campbell and ask him to justify his decisions.” Derek pulls Stiles’ arm over his shoulder. “Otherwise, focus on the job you were assigned and _stay at your post_.”

Parker backs off and Derek carries Stiles to his tent, two of the other armed guards trailing behind them hesitantly. Derek lowers Stiles and opens the tent flap, leaving him to awkwardly crawl in, his ankles heavy and legs still exhausted. The flap falls closed and Stiles is separated from Derek and the rest of the camp by a few canvas walls and a zipper.

“Do not leave your posts. If someone other than me tells you that I’ve given you a break, _do not leave your posts_. If the kid moves to escape, _tase_ before you shoot, and tase to _stun_ , not to kill.”

“Where are you going?” Parker’s voice is small as he asks the question.

“I’m taking Logan to the med tent.” Derek’s voice fades as he walks away.

Stiles wobbles to the opposite side of the tent, collapsing onto the cot sidled up next to the wall and flopping over on his side, sighing as the cold material of the sleeping bag resting on the canvas soothes the burns on his arms. He turns his face into the soft pillow at the head of the cot and inhales, the smell of sandalwood immediate and sharp on his nose.

Although he wouldn’t mind drowning in it, Derek’s scent does little to calm his nerves.

_What are they going to do to him? Hang him? Put him to sleep like a rabid dog? Tell him to stand against the wall and line up to shoot?_

It takes what feels like hours, but Stiles’ thoughts eventually calm from a swirling tornado to a slow river of murk and when his eyes begin to drift shut, he gratefully gives in to the delicious oblivion of unconsciousness.

 

⁂

 

Quiet footsteps pull Stiles from fitful sleep filled with flashes of blurred faces and experiences he doesn’t remember as his own. He isn’t really sure if they could be considered dreams or nightmares. Maybe something in between. The flap of the tent flips upward and Stiles sits up on his elbows. The soft orange glow from the overhead lights outside the tent outlines Derek’s broad shoulders as he crawls through the small opening of the tent, putting his hands up in reassurance.

“It’s just me.”

Stiles flops down onto the cot and slides his palms down his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

With a quiet _zip_ , the flap of the tent is closed and Derek lights a match, holding the small flame up to the inside of a lantern sitting on a side-table, a soft glow illuminating the inside of the tent. He sets down a small pile of folded clothes, crowned by a small plastic bottle of some variant of alcohol and a white box with a red cross painted messily on the lid. He lowers himself to the ground with his legs crossed like a kindergartener and pats the ground before him.

Stiles groans but sits up on the cot and slides to the ground, crossing his legs and stuffing his hands into his lap.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” The tips of Stiles’ ears turn pink and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I need to stitch you up.”

“Oh—,” Stiles fidgets and pulls Derek’s shirt over his head. The grey material of his ripped, wadded up shirt is stained pink and damp with blood and he can’t help but gag, looking up at the ceiling of the tent and trying to catch his breath. “God, I hate blood so much.”

“I seem to remember that quite clearly.” Derek plucks the small bottle of clear alcohol— vodka by the looks of it— from the top of the pile and twists the cap open, the plastic seal ripping with a sound that makes Stiles flinch. He pours half of the liquid over his hands and sets it aside, replacing it with the white first-aid kit. He pops the lid and rips the package of an antiseptic wipe.

“I need to clean the wound so it doesn’t get infected, but… are you okay with me touching you? After everything that’s happened?”

Without looking down, Stiles nods and tries not to throw up, tears stinging his eyes.

Derek scoots closer and peels the damp material of Stiles’ shirt from the laceration on his stomach. With careful fingers, he cleans the dried blood from the edges of the wound with the wipe and discards it when it’s stained crimson.

“I’m gonna stitch it up now.” Derek taps Stiles on the shoulder and he looks down from the canvas ceiling. “You’re gonna have to lay down.”

Stiles lowers himself to the ground on his elbows and folds his arms over his face, groaning. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

“Not really, but do it anyway.” Stiles takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, an exercise he’s gotten alarmingly familiar with in the past few days.

Derek pours the rest of the vodka over a needle from the sewing kit in his backpack and moves so he’s sitting next to Stiles’ stomach, “Not to make you nervous but I’ve never really had to do this before with the supernatural healing and all.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Stiles mumbles against his arm, “keep going.”

Derek goes to work on Stiles’ stomach, trying his best to focus and keep his hands steady. The cut has mostly stopped bleeding freely, but the ends of his fingers are tinged red and he keeps losing his grip on the needle. He can’t help but wince every time Stiles lets out a quiet whimper when the sharp point dives back down into his skin; the smell of Stiles’ pain is heavy in the air and it’s driving him crazy.

Once he’s tied a knot in the end of the thread, he looks down at the messy stitches, clicking his tongue. _It’s not the best, but it’s better than walking around with a gaping wound._

Derek tapes a clean pad of gauze to Stiles’ stomach and wraps a bandage around his torso to keep it in place, carefully watching to make sure Stiles doesn’t pass out. His forehead glistens with sweat in the light from the lantern and his breathing is shallow.

“I— I remember,” Stiles’ eyes flick up to meet Derek’s and his voice is ragged as he speaks, “Getting the tattoos, I mean. I think it was the needle, it’s like— like it was familiar.”

“What do you remember?”

“The pain, mostly. If I’m being honest, I think the tattoos hurt worse than the injection. I remember there was an ache in my shoulder, kind of like how it feels after you get a flu shot and the nurse sticks a weird Hello Kitty bandaid on you and says that you’re good to go. But the tattoos” Stiles’ hands ghost over the sharp red bands circling his arm and he shudders, “I think I didn’t want to be marked. Mostly because I’d heard tattoos hurt like hell no matter where you got them, but I… I didn’t want people to know that I had gotten the antidote because I didn’t want anyone to think I was weak for fearing the virus.”

Letting out a sigh, Derek takes Stiles’ hand in his own. “Fear doesn’t make you weak Stiles, it’s just…” his sentence tapers off and his eyebrows pull together as he unclasps his hand from Stiles’, moving it to rest against the exposed skin over his ribs, surprised when it’s blazing hot beneath his touch.

Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows, his gaze hazy and unfocused. “What was that for?”

“You’re really hot.”

Stiles looks exhausted, but he grins. “Wow, Derek. Didn’t know you had a thing for being sweaty and gross.” His voice is hoarse, but he waggles his eyebrows. Jokingly of course.

“No, not like that. You’re burning up and your temperature is higher than mine, which is saying something.” With a small ‘oh’ from Stiles, accompanied by a pink flush barely visible on his cheeks in the low light, Derek runs his palms down his face and back up through his hair, “I don’t happen to have a PhD in human sicknesses, so I’m completely lost on how to treat a fever, if that’s even what this is.”

“I know about the same as you.” Stiles shrugs against the ground and winces with the movement, his scent still heavy with pain and discomfort.

“Can I try something really quick? It should ease the pain which might help bring down the fever.” Stiles’ face is a sickly shade of grey and his heart flutters. “I’ll have to touch you again.”

Stiles nods hesitantly and Derek pulls him upward, supporting his torso and carefully situating him against the sidebar of the cot. He takes Stiles’ hand in his own and closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind and focus on the place where his body ends and Stiles’ begins. He can’t tell if anything is actually happening until his wrist begins to cramp.

Stiles head falls back against the cot and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a shaky sigh. Derek opens his eyes, the veins running across the backs of his hands flowing black until they fade back out into a dull blueish green at the juncture of his elbow.

“Is that… better?”

“Sufficiently."

Derek pulls away and reaches toward the short pile of folded clothing, scooping it up and offering it to Stiles. “Do you need help?”

Stiles takes the pile in his hands, investigating the clothing: a pair of soft grey sweats and a navy blue sweatshirt. “I— I think I’ll be fine. I’ll holler if I need anything else.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving you alone again.” Derek can’t help but chuckle when Stiles’ face screws up, his nose scrunching in distaste.

“Can you at least… turn around, or something?”

Derek nods and turns to face the canvas wall of the tent, ignoring the urge to press Stiles about the odd request— he hates himself for thinking about it, but he had already seen most of his body anyway.

His stomach twists uncomfortably when he remembers what Stiles had told him about the omega that had taken him before he was found, touching him and using his pain for its own pleasure.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and closes his eyes, silently reciting the phrase all betas enlisted in the militia recited when learning control: _Alpha, Beta, Omega_.

The vigorous pounding in his chest slows.

With Derek’s back turned, Stiles strips his pants. They had been a plain grey the morning before, but after the ‘beast incident’ and all the butt-scooting Stiles had done to avoid being a part of said incident, the back of his pants had been stained a rusty orange. He crumples them into a tight ball and throws them in one of the tent’s corners. _Good riddance_.

He struggles to bring his knees close enough to his chest to slip his legs into the sweatpants Derek handed him and flops like a stiff, uncomfortable fish to slip the waistband over his ass, breathing ragged as he pulls himself back up into a sitting position, careful not to rip his stitches. He stares at the navy sweatshirt in dismay, suddenly hyperaware of the beads of sweat rolling down his neck and the heat from the fever consuming his body.

“Do I have to wear the shirt? I’m still kinda hot.” Stiles adds silently, _it has to be at least 75 goddamn degrees in here_.

Derek turns back around toward Stiles and shakes his head. “Just be careful with the bandages, okay?” He stands and takes the folded sweatshirt from Stiles’ hands, tossing it into an open duffel bag sitting on the ground. “I’ll sleep on the ground and you can go on the cot. I have a pillow and an extra blanket that I can use if I need it.”

“Actually,” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck and Derek can hear his pulse spike. “Can you sleep up here? With me? I just— I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

“Sure.”

A look of surprise spreads across Stiles’ face as Derek offers him a hand, carefully pulling him up to a standing position. “I thought you said you didn’t trust me, being a ticking time-bomb and all.”

“You haven’t shown any of the symptoms of turning— the logic of which I still don’t understand— so I think I’ll be fine, at least for one night.” Derek plops down onto the cot and lays on his side, patting the empty expanse in front of him, his wolf howling silently in delight when Stiles cradles up beside him. His scent is still heavy with pain and slight nervousness, but now, with their bodies pressed close, Derek can smell the underlying tones of Stiles’ contentment and relief.

He knows that the contact between betas and their alphas is important to the dynamic of a pack— one touch starved wolf could jumble the entire structure, no matter the strength of the pack as a whole— but he hadn’t even thought to consider that the case might be the same for humans.

Stiles’ back is pressed firmly against his chest, but Derek hesitates to make any other contact. He doesn’t want to push Stiles’ level of comfort more than he already has just by touching him, his heartbeat still pounding in a slightly erratic tempo. If it had been him, instead of Stiles, being used like a lifeless sex-toy, unclothed and degraded in the middle of the entire militia, ambushed in the middle of the night by three boneheaded dickbags planning on kidnapping him just for the cash, he’d be losing his mind if someone came within ten feet of him.

Derek almost falls off the other side of the cot in surprise when Stiles moves to grab his hand, pulling his arm around his waist and tentatively holding one of Derek’s hands in two of his own. He wordlessly explores Derek’s hands with his fingertips, lazily drifting over the length of each of Derek’s fingers individually and rubbing distracted circles against the calloused skin of his palm.

“You used to do that when we were kids.” Derek murmurs against the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Really?”

Derek hums an affirmation. “When I was eleven, we were playing by my house and I fell in the river— got some pretty nasty gashes on my palms from trying to catch myself— but you jumped in right behind me to make sure I was okay. Dumbass move considering it was the middle of winter and you probably could’ve gotten hypothermia or something, but you helped me— about lost your mind when you saw the cuts closing by themselves.” Derek chuckles, a small puff of air that ruffles Stiles’ hair and makes goosebumps erupt across his neck. “You were always fascinated by how fast we could heal, but my mother was afraid that if I told you the truth that it would endanger the pack, so she told you that contact could heal better than any medicine. You were always kind of clingy anyways— I think you had some kind of fixation, took every chance you had to hold my hand.”

A pink flush blossoms across Stiles’ neck, the tips of his ears reddening just a bit more. “That’s… embarrassing."

“Well, you were only seven, and stuff like that is really common since werewolves depend on contact from their pack for comfort and strength, so you fit right in. Your mom used to say that you had been born into the wrong family.”

“My mom?”

Derek hums. “Her name was Claudia Stilinski— that’s your last name, if you were wondering.”

“Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles murmurs to himself, trying out the name on his tongue, “One hell of a mouthful.”

“Don’t I know it. It’s very _you_ , though.” They fall into a comfortable silence, Stiles still tracing the contours of Derek’s palm with the soft pads of his fingers and massaging the muscle beneath, reveling in the quiet hums of contentment coming from somewhere deep in Derek’s chest. He thinks he could listen to that sound on repeat forever and ever, happy to block out anything and everything else.

They fall asleep like that, momentarily content with the peculiar world in which they reside, their hands intertwined and bodies pressed close.

Derek wakes up sometime around 5 AM, a routine polished by years of being woken by the bellowing of his training commander.

He remembers a time before the virus, when he would wake to the sound of birds chirping and golden sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window, warming him through the layers of blankets he always had piled on his bed. His mother would be downstairs cooking up a storm, the homey smell of bacon and waffles and _pack_ finding its way to his nose and slowly pulling him from his lethargic stupor through means of his grumbling stomach.

But here, outside the wall, the birds are long gone and the sun that lights up the inside of his eyelids streams through a rough, army green canvas.

His arm is draped over a warm mass, steadily rising and falling, matching the tranquil rhythm of the heartbeat making itself known in his ears. He looks down to see the most chaotic case of bedhead he’s ever laid eyes on. Below it, Stiles’ forehead is nestled firmly against the middle of his chest. Derek’s shirt has been rucked up from sleep, and Stiles is unconsciously taking advantage of the presented opportunity, his arms snaking around Derek’s torso and hands flattened against the bare skin and muscle of his back.

Goosebumps erupt over Derek’s skin as he notices how their legs tangle together, compensating for the extremely minimal width of the cot.

He wants to get up— his arm beginning to feel the effects of acting as Stiles’ makeshift pillow— but in sleep, Stiles looks peaceful, closely resembling the younger version of himself that Derek had known before the virus. He ignores the familiar feeling of pins and needles pricking along his arm and down to his hand, focusing on the steady beating of Stiles’ heart and his scent— beneath all the dust and sweat and pain, Stiles smells familiar, like rich pine and rain.

He smells like _home_.

 


End file.
